


The Devil In Disguise

by frogfarm



Series: Dexter the Vampire Slayer: Devil's Dance [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Dexter (TV)
Genre: Coming of Age, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 107,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfarm/pseuds/frogfarm
Summary: As a serial killer working undercover in forensic analysis, Dexter Morgan is accustomed to the art of deception. With the help of his newly empowered Slayer stepdaughter, he's turned over a new leaf. Together they've driven notorious and legendary vampires Darla and Drusilla out of the city. And with his bloodthirsty past finally revealed to the ones he loves, Miami Metro's most well-meaning murderer is looking forward to settling down to being the best family man and rogue demon hunter he can be. But his troubles are just getting started. From suspicious co-workers to awkward teen talks, from the struggles of romance to the fatal obsessions that only love can bring, Dexter's world is about to get even weirder. As Darla's parting shot threatens to be the magic bullet that brings him down for good, Dexter and his family battle against vampires, demons, the forces of darkness...and the evils hidden within the human heart."I haven't even read it, but your summary was enough to make my brain bust a nut.""I love this series...If this is the end, [it's] been an awesome journey.""REALLY GOOD...I'm always clicking to see if a new chapter is available."
Relationships: Dexter Morgan & Astor Bennett, Dexter Morgan/Lumen Pierce, Faith Lehane/Debra Morgan
Series: Dexter the Vampire Slayer: Devil's Dance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818931
Comments: 35
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers abound here. So if you haven't yet, you should read the first story in this series, entitled [The Devil You Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072122). Don't worry -- Dexter will remind you again. Hopefully before you go too far.
> 
> * * *

Orlando at night is not at all like Miami. Aside from the presence of the evil mouse empire around every corner, it's more of a family-friendly environment in general. The air feels more stifling away from the bay; the downtown cycles through booms and busts of stripmall development. The street vendors are not renowned the world over for their Cuban pulled pork sandwiches. And I wouldn't have a clue where to safely dispose of a body. Assuming I needed to.

But tonight our family is riding high on the hog. Dining out, at a better class of restaurant than usual. Hardly black tie and tails, but all of the Morgan clan are wearing nice clean-cut American clothing. My white shirt and tan slacks are set off by Lumen's dark blue dress and tasteful earrings, with a matching baby wrap to leave her hands free. Harrison's getting big enough we won't be able to do this much longer, but I don't regret buying the blood spatter-patterned wrap that normally accompanies our family outings. Astor is the most casual, wearing her customary slightly baggy khakis and a crisply pressed purple top. Her hair is longer than ever, tumbling loose about her shoulders.

"Nice of you to wear it down," I say, as we disembark from the car.

Lumen gives me a look of warning. I'm a little surprised when Astor refrains from adolescent snark. I know why she's taken of late to wearing her hair up and braided. Strictly for safety and ease of movement, should she be called upon to fight. Which happens rather often when one is a Slayer. As my stepdaughter is.

I also know why she's in a good mood. We're here in Orlando to see her brother. Her full brother, as opposed to the half-brother my girlfriend is carrying. And anything that takes her mind off the fact that my girlfriend is a vampire tends to be a good thing. It's been almost a week since Astor saw Cody, and the weeks leading up to that time have seen great happenings in all our lives. Except for Cody's, which thankfully has remained wholly and mind-numbingly normal.

"Bill!" I plaster on a smile made of plastic. Just like the old days. "Maura!"

Astor swoops in and grabs Cody, sweeping him around above her head with a resounding war whoop. Cody responds with gleeful abandon. His grandparents look on with somewhat greater concern.

"Sorry for the delay," I say. "We got pulled over."

"It's those tinted windows." Bill nods with sagely wisdom, patting his belly. "They think you've got something to hide."

Lumen offers a shrug. "I burn easily."

She said the same thing to the guy who pulled us over. I'm just glad he didn't take it the wrong way. We had to leave well before sundown to get here on time.

Lumen steps forward, Harrison still slumbering on her chest. She wears a sober expression as she offers both hands to Bill and Maura each in turn. They return the gesture, slightly hesitant as they gaze back into her eyes, looking down at Harrison in her care. I know they're not related to him by blood, but they've always been more than happy to have him around.

"Despite what it may look like --" Lumen takes a deep breath. She's quite good at making it look real. "I really am very happy to meet you."

"Likewise," Maura says. Bill just nods.

All they know is what Astor has told them. That like me, Lumen had suffered. That the two of us had found one another, become friends, helped each other make it through our respective troubled times. That we were now officially a couple. Though I thought Astor would explode when she asked me how long.

  


* * *

  


"Not really your business," I say. Clearly I don't sound firm enough.

"You said she wasn't your girlfriend." Astor folds her arms and stares, as well as giving me the raised eyebrow. This lets me know I have no choice. "So how long?"

I blink and feel confused. Astor lets out an exasperated sigh.

"How long after you told me that?"

"Oh." I think back, trying to remember. "Um..."

Astor's eyebrow inches higher still. I finish even more weakly.

"A couple of days?"

Astor's eyes expand. A growl begins to build deep in her throat.

"It just happened." I don't want to sound this defensive. "Like Deb. And Faith --'

Astor throws up her hands in supplication to the sky. Then she turns and stalks out of the room. 

Parenting is not easy.

  


* * *

  


"Obviously," Lumen continues, "I just wish it could have been under different circumstances."

"Rita was..." Bill pauses, looking more at a loss for words than choked up. I'm glad. I always have more trouble with the latter. Unless I'm the one doing the choking.

"A wonderful person," he concludes, sounding slightly less defeated. "I wish you could have met her."

Lumen merely smiles and nods. I sneak a look at Astor, who returns it with a cynical smirk of acknowledgement.

For it wasn't that long ago that she did. That the Powers That Be -- forces beyond human understanding -- had poked a finger into our lives. Just like a vampire named Darla, who looked like my dead wife -- the mother of all three of these children -- had poked a finger in my side, before trying to hurl me to my death from a three-story window. And when the Powers intervened, Rita's spirit had somehow been made manifest. Been temporarily given the gift of speech, through the undead body of a four hundred year old mass murderer.

There's a lot more. So if you haven't, you should probably read my account of those events before proceeding further. My own bloody secrets had finally come to light, as far as my immediate family was concerned. But you can probably see already why we prefer to leave most people in the dark. 

"Honestly?" Maura has the air of someone ready and willing to offend all comers. "She was better than Paul deserved."

A snort of displeasure from Bill. We're finally being seated, outside on the patio. I'm doubly glad we convinced them to do this at night.

"He died where he belonged. It's true." Bill shakes his head. "But we still had Rita. And the kids."

I see Astor sneak a quick glance at Cody. She's only a few years older, and losing Rita has been incredibly hard on both of them. Astor, of course, has been through even more recent trauma. Bad enough facing a vampire that looks like your dead mother, let alone saying goodbye to your actual mother all over again. It's probably for the best Cody wasn't there. Still, I can't help but wish for him to have had the same opportunity.

"And when she had Harrison -- we were so happy. For ourselves, and for her." Bill concludes his tale with a heavy sigh before forcing himself to brighten, looking around the table. "And I'm happy that you're all here."

"Me too!" Cody bounces in his chair. Astor leans over and presses down on his shoulder. Cody immediately stops bouncing, rubbing his shoulder and shooting her a puzzled stare.

The drink server hovers expectantly over us. Lumen raises her hand.

"Bloody Shame?"

The young man frowns. "You mean a Virgin Mary?"

Lumen shrugs and smiles up at his neck. "Potato, potahto."

Maura seems to approve of my girlfriend abstaining from alcohol, Bill slightly less so. Luckily they both excuse themselves to use the restroom. This means that Lumen doesn't have to be sneaky when she pulls a flask from her purse. Cody watches in rapt fascination as she adds a few generous glugs to her glass. Lumen notices, and puts a finger to her lips.

Cody giggles. I actually hear Astor do the same. A bit of a surprise, given her generally icky and conflicted feelings. She wouldn't care so much if that flask was full of vodka. It may look like tomato juice, but it's nearly pure homo sapiens type O positive, with a shot of stabilizers and preservatives to keep it from clotting or oxidizing. At least long enough for a night on the town.

"You look wonderful, dear." Grandma has some difficulty easing back into her chair, but her smile is warm and open. "Any young men in your life?"

"For God's sake, Maura!" Bill sounds irritated and scandalized in equal measure. "She's thirteen!"

"I'm not asking the girl if she needs condoms!" Maura's scorn vanishes as she returns her attention to Astor. "You'll have to forgive Bill. He's a little old-fashioned."

"I'm not the one stuck in the Middle Ages." Bill looks more than ready to continue the argument. Cody's starting to go from worried to looking for a convenient pit he can sink into.

Astor raises her hand. "Do I need to go to the bathroom for a while?"

I wish I'd been that smart as a kid. It's enough to get everyone playing nice again, until the waitress arrives and our orders have been taken.

"So." Maura's back in concerned mode. From the look on Bill's face, she'll be speaking for both of them. "This -- society thing --"

She's referring to our heavily abridged description of the New Watcher's Council. Unlike the middle ages, this is a group run by Slayers, for Slayers.

"I don't want to go back to school this year." Astor sits up straight and serious, formally presenting her case. "There's not that long left. And Olivia was my only friend, and I'm talking to her every week. And this -- thing?"

Her face breaks into an enormous grin. I can see the effect it has on both of them. I can't imagine how long it's been since they saw their granddaughter show even the slightest happiness.

"It is _so_ cool."

"Despite that glowing review --" I secure their attention, intent on asserting my parental responsibility. "It really is something. Way better than Scouts."

Cody's eyes get large. "Really?"

More like if the Marines were a bunch of superpowered female teenage killing machines. Though I doubt this will add to the discussion.

"She can easily stay caught up on all her subjects," I say, "and still go into ninth grade next year. Maybe skip a grade, if she does well enough."

Astor nods eagerly, but remains silent. After the talk we had, I don't think she wants to jinx this.

The rest of our dinner goes without a hitch. Astor gushes over the awesome people she's meeting, the incredible things they're learning. I do have to clear my throat on one occasion to remind her to self-censor some of the more supernatural details. But it's not long before we've polished off dessert and we're standing in the parking lot outside, saying our goodbyes. Cody hugs his sister and me, and even Harrison, who stands on his toes to receive it. But he appears hesitant to do the same with Lumen.

"It's okay." Lumen offers a reassuring smile despite her disappointment. "We just met."

Cody nods, playing it cool. As far as I know, he's completely unaware of the demon world that lurks beneath the surface of our world and occasionally bleeds over. But I remember when he last met with his sister. Her words of warning; the cross she'd given him to wear around his neck. 

"That could have gone a lot worse." Lumen's arm curls around me as we make our way back to the car. "You said those are your dad's folks?"

"Yeah." Astor looks over her shoulder, waving once more at Cody as he climbs into the van.

"Mom didn't talk that much about her family." Astor shrugs, affecting a casual mien. "She always said Paul's parents were nicer to her."

"I --" Lumen holds that thought. Chews over it, masticating thoroughly as we strap ourselves in. It's not until we're pulling out into the street that she continues.

"I want to give my mom a call." Lumen shakes her head. "But I'd be too worried."

I suspect Astor already knows the answer to her question. "About what?"

"I might say the wrong thing." Lumen lets out a ghostly chuckle, gazing out her window at the passing streetlights. "Or she'd want me to visit. Or she'd come down here --"

"Yeah." Astor at least sounds more sympathetic than usual. She brightens at a thought. "Want to spar when we get back?"

Lumen looks over with tired eyes. "Maybe later."

I wonder how many other fathers have this problem.

Maybe I should start a support group of my own.

  


* * *

  


"You're sure it was this one?"

 _"Positive."_ The voice on the phone is full of static and worry. _"Please be careful."_

"Careful is my middle name." James finishes navigating the entrance, smoothly coming out of the turn. The parking lot is unpaved dirt, currently half-full of assorted vehicles. From behind the main building comes an irregular staccato of miniature explosions, ringing out with gleeful abandon.

 _"I just -- I don't think he would do anything too foolish?"_ It's one of those questions that isn't. _"But -- after the last time --"_

"You were concerned." He spies the car he's looking for at the end of the row. It's parked slightly crooked. "That's all I needed to hear."

 _"All right."_ A worried sigh trickles down the line. _"You let me know. I don't know what I'd do if something happened."_

"I'll take care of it." He gazes up at the sign over the door. It reads:

**_SOUTHWEST MINNEAPOLIS GUN CLUB_**

**_MEMBERS AND AUTHORIZED GUESTS ONLY_**

"Just try not to worry."

Despite his confident tone, Jamie looks grim as he approaches the building. Even for this town, he's always been viewed as an optimist. But ever since Lumen Pierce ran away from home and left his best friend at the altar, life has increasingly become a downward spiral. Owen had pined for months, tracked her all the way to Florida only to return home empty-handed. And that might have been the end of it.

Except Lumen did finally come back. And when she refused to see him -- for whatever reason -- it seemed that Owen had been cut off from that final thread of hope. He'd lost the menial job he'd held down until then; spent a few weeks at home going through increasing quantities of whiskey. James had been on the verge of dropping night classes in order to stage some kind of intervention. Then one morning the dumpster was free of empty bottles. Owen was out in the driveway, underneath his Pinto, draining the oil pan.

It didn't last. But neither did he plunge headlong back into depression. He wavered for some time, occasionally applying for work or attending a gathering. But every attempt to draw him out or even make a connection ended sooner or later in awkward silence. The few like James, who only wanted to help, were left floundering and lost.

James was still in touch with Lumen's mother. Last week, Helen had received a phone call from her daughter. Shortly thereafter, she had received a visit from Owen that left her shaken. She had promptly picked up the phone and dialed James, giving him what little concrete information she could remember. The path that led him here had been a short one, but it's taking him into new and uncharted territory.

He's a little surprised when they want to see some identification, but hands it over with a smile. A bulkier version of Owen, the quintessential cornfed nerd, his rugged good looks have often been considered disarming.

"Your friend's number twelve." The range safety officer is a short but beefy fellow with a bristling black mustache. He points down the line with a scowl.

James peers downwind through the scratched set of safety goggles. Foolish he might feel, but the man behind the counter had recommended them. 

"Owen?"

His friend looks up from the table, blinking like an owl behind the taped up pair of glasses. His eyes aren't as bloodshot as last time, but they're not focused on James. That haunted stare gazes off into space, transfixed at the sight of some atrocity too monstrous for one man to contain in his head. The light and wispy stubble on his face is only a few days worth, making him look even younger and more vulnerable.

The table is littered with parts. Exploded and stripped, scattered like pieces of a jigsaw. Some kind of pistol. He thinks that's the correct term.

"I can't start yet." Owen sounds like he's patiently explaining to a child. He takes off his glasses and sets to cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. "Not until I can put this together."

"I'm not going to try to understand," James says, very softly. "I just want my friend to come home."

Owen's gaze softens. "That's all I want."

"Then forget her!" James forces himself to lower his voice again. "Let her go. And if she comes back --"

"She won't." Owen shakes his head. His fingers travel slowly over the pieces, his restless gaze roaming back and forth across the table. "I don't know what's going on. But something is _wrong._ And I need to--"

"You _need_." James puts his hands on the table, leaning down in close to that pale and vacant stare. "You need to get over this obsession. Because that's what it is. You know she's alive and well --'

"She's not well." Owen merely shakes his head again. "Not at all."

James can feel a cold ball forming in the pit of his stomach. It's not going away as Owen sits down at the table, focusing his attention on the disassembled handgun before him.

"Are you going to help?" Owen picks up a hand grip, frowning at it in deep concentration. "If not, please leave."

James has a lot on his mind as he walks back out to his car. But first and foremost is one thought.

He doesn't want to know how this can get any worse.

And he's dead certain it will.

  


* * *

  


"They tell me you're the best."

"They may be right." The mage is sleek and slender, wearing a satin robe stained in rich deep burgundy. Her fingernails sparkle with gold, the shaved left side of her head covered with intricate tattoos depicting all manner of mystic symbols.

She leans back in her chair, fingers steepled. "The question is whether you need the best."

"Always." The prospective client sits motionless. Apart from fingers tapping on the arm of her chair, slow and steady.

"Of course, I'm going to need full payment up front." The mage offers a slight nod of apology. "I'm sure you understand."

"Before I leave town?" The question is rhetorical, sarcastic in the extreme. "Don't worry. By the time your curse hits, I'll be long gone."

"Never to return, I understand." The sorceress nods. "You do realize that means strictly cash."

"As long as you can get the job done." Fingers curl into fists, clutching at the arms of a priceless antique.

The mage looks back at her with a grave and solemn air. "As long as you're sure about this."

The laugh that echoes throughout the tiny office is a crazed cackle. Downright deranged.

"I've lived over four hundred years."

Nails dig into leather.

"And I have never been more sure of anything."

Wood begins to splinter, under that inhuman grip.

"Because no suffering is too exquisite."

Blood trickles down pale fingertips. Hits the floor and explodes, in a tiny starburst.

"No misery sufficient."

The mage cocks her head, pursing her lips.

"Not for this man."

Darla's lips pull back into a savage snarl. She leans forward, dead eyes blazing; spitting the purest obscenity as she gives name to her great white whale.

"Not for Dexter Morgan."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to work. A short visit. A new arrival. And an untimely ending.

In all the years I've worked at Miami Metro, I can count on one hand the number of sick days I've taken. And every one of those was more of a mental health issue. As in the longer it took to find another killer who qualified for my table, the more I started to crave it. Bringing order to the world; dividing and disposing of the trash. For a time, feeling what others would probably refer to as peace of mind.

But it's been weeks since I felt the urge to kill a human being. Instead, my dark desires have been channeled into exploring the demon world that coexists alongside our own. Newly revealed to me, it's a fascinating and bloody history spanning thousands of years.

Unfortunately I've had to take an entire week off, recuperating from injuries that were hard enough to explain to the ER nurse. I can only imagine my lieutenant. Let alone my insurance agent.

Thankfully my hands have healed quicker than the digital puncture wound in my side. I'll be feeling that for a while yet. But when it comes to sitting at a desk to go over casework, I am absolutely up to the task.

"Glad to have you back." Vince hands me a greasy brown paper bag that smells of beef and peppers. "Happy Tuesday."

"Thanks," I mumble through a full mouth. "I'll make it up to you." 

"No need." It's just the two of us in the office, but Vince lowers his voice, scoots his chair closer. "Seriously, you guys saved my bacon. I thought for sure I was gonna end up as your next case."

"I notice you're still hitting the nightclubs three times a week." I try not to sound overly critical.

"Drusilla cured me of sticking it in crazy. But if you want to meet Miss Right?" Vince nods sagely, with a fatalistic air. "You've gotta play the odds."

Not for the first time, I reflect on how lucky I am to have met Lumen. It certainly didn't seem like it when I was wrestling her into submission, getting her blood all over my clean work shirt. Or when I was berating her for saddling me with a dying dentist while a potential kill struggled to free himself from my plastic prison. He'd broken my car window and run off, forcing a last-minute chase that nearly led my sister and Masuka right to me.

I guess I'm also lucky that I no longer have to hide so much from them. Deb still calls me swear names. More now, actually. Her resentment seems mostly about me having lied to her for so long. That and the actual nature of my nocturnal hobbies.

All of which makes me additionally thankful for the recent intrusion of the demon realm into all our lives. If anything could soften the blow of your brother being a serial killer, it would be finding out that vampires are real. And that's just for starters. Between my daughter, my girlfriend and Deb's new girlfriend, I'm surrounded by superpowered women. It's one of the more interesting aspects to my new reality. I can only imagine how Cody will inevitably react when he finds out boys can't be Slayers.

The healing hole in my abdomen isn't doing too badly, considering. Still, the throb is getting intense enough that I beg off early. Vince nods as he surveys our outgoing table packed full of stacked files, trays of vials with neat little labels.

"I can already see the difference." He offers an approving thumb as he gathers up his things. "Get some rest, buddy. Back at it tomorrow."

I have to admit it feels good. Not being constantly on the lookout for temptation. My interference with investigations had spared a lot of guilty parties over the years, all so they could wind up strapped to my table to be confronted with their crimes. Along with Rita, my sister had been one of the people it actually pained me to lie to. She still is. Though I can't now think of any reason to deceive her.

I would have Lumen pick me up from work, but the hour is dangerously early for her to leave the house. Even with tinted windows. I'm in the process of calling a cab when Angel pokes his head in the door.

"Dex! Is that your nurse?" Angel purses his lips, pressing his pinched fingers to them before puffing them outward in an imaginary cloud. " _Mama mia!_ "

I pause in my dialing. "What are you talking about?" 

"In the parking lot." Angel nods toward the window, looking wistful. "She said to tell you your ride's here."

There's a light buzzing in my head as I carefully make my way through the hall and down the elevator. I'm expecting blonde hair right up to the last, when I step through the door to outside. I'm saying thanks to the man holding it open for me when I'm hailed by a familiar voice.

"Howdy, sailor."

I look up to see a stunning brunette perched on the hood of what looks like a rental car. She hops down and walks over, offering a soul handshake.

"Faith." I manage the first part, but I'm quickly lost. "What's up? Everything okay?"

"Copacetic," she assures me as she helps me into the passenger seat. To any observer she's just guiding me, when in fact she's holding all my weight. "Five by five."

"So is this a social call?" I frown as she slides behind the wheel. "And since when do you drive?"

"Finally got my license." She sends me a look of warning. "I don't like this car."

"Duly noted," I say. She's not that bad. Varying between overly cautious and the occasional burst of speed, whether inadvertent or consciously applied. Typical teenager stuff. Even for someone a bit older and more jaded, they say there's nothing like your first time. 

"Mostly I just wanted you guys not to worry about little man." Faith sounds casual even as her attention remains utterly focused on her task at hand. "And face to face is best. More secure, plus you get it all. Body language, tone of voice -- the works."

"You mean Cody?" I remember her saying they had people watching the family in Orlando. "We just saw him. He looks great."

"We saw you too." Faith grins, eyes fixed on the road. "Or my team did. Nice choice on the lava cake."

I think back. "The waitress?"

"And one or two of the guests." Faith allows herself a brief but satisfied glance at me. "But a girl doesn't give away all her secrets."

  


* * *

  


Astor is disappointed when she finds out Faith won't even be staying for dinner. I'm just glad that Lumen is taking a nap, or pretending to. There's no bad blood between them, but it's for the best. Hard enough for a newly fledged vampire to get along with her foster daughter, let alone when the girl is a Slayer. And in the brave new world created by Faith's friends, there are literally thousands of these girls, only a handful of whom know enough not to stake first and ask questions later should they ever encounter my girlfriend. Even those are hit or miss. 

"Well, I leave tomorrow." Faith offers a subtle smirk. "Gotta go see the little woman."

Astor giggles. She may be happy to continue living the single life, but she seems to take a gleeful satisfaction in my sister's relationship with the senior Slayer. It may currently be long distance, but both parties seem to be making it work. In comparison, Lumen and I have generated approximately zero cute couple moments to provoke the slightest expression of humor from Astor. I'm still amazed about last night's dinner. For a Slayer, I have to guess that laughing about a flask full of blood is pretty edgy.

"I think Deb's still at the station," I say. "Is she letting you pick her up?"

"As if." Faith reaches into her satchel and pulls out an envelope.

"Here you go. Hand delivered," Faith adds, with an appropriately elevated eyebrow. "And untouched by non-Slayer hands."

Astor looks down at the hasty, looping scrawl of her own name. "This is from your friend?"

"The genuine article." Faith's sigh is one of competing nostalgia and regret. "I didn't blab your life story. And she's got her own team to find stuff out. But you know, when her head's not totally up her --"

Astor looks expectant. Faith covers with a quick cough.

"I just thought she might have something to say." Faith shrugs. "You know. In between saving the world."

"That was nice of her," I offer. I'm not sure why they're all looking at me like that.

Astor rolls her eyes. Then she turns back to Faith, with an eager look on her face. "So where is it?"

"Oh yeah." Faith pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. "Gimme a sec."

"She sent me a one second clip," Astor confides. She leans forward with a grin of anticipation, practically bouncing up and down in her chair.

"Here you go." Faith turns the phone sideways and holds it up for us. Her face is poker, but I'm prepared for anything. "Watch the birdie." 

As the video starts it looks like bodycam footage, with the camera mounted on someone's head. I see a pair of hands resting on a gray metal duct, indicative of industrial air conditioning. More hands to either side indicate a trio of observers witnessing whatever is about to be immortalized. The view stretches across a gravel covered rooftop, ending at two figures lying prone near the edge.

_"You got the shot?"_ The tone is gruff and the voice raspy, with additional interference from a hefty dose of static. It sounds overdubbed, like it's coming through the headphones of whoever is recording.

_"Almost."_ A relaxed chuckle, deeper than the first speaker. _"Gonna see if I can't go for a double."_

_"Quit messing around."_ Our worldview world bobs and weaves as the wearer of the camera shifts position. _"We get paid for one of these brats. And it better be the right one."_

I recognize the surrounding buildings. These people are next door to Cody's school. I hear the dim echo of children, their voices raised in laughter.

Astor is keyed up like a greyhound on a leash. Even with Faith's assurances and placid calm, my palms are beginning to sweat.

_"Just for that?"_ A raspy clear of the throat. _"Triple."_

The sky seems to ripple. The very air around them undulating, with a brief and shimmering distortion.

_"What was that?"_

_"Nothing."_ And indeed, the high def view is once more crystal clear. _"Just get it done."_

I hold my breath.

The world recedes away from us, turning to gray metal. I realize the camera-wearing observer must have ducked down.

Right before the explosion.

The bass of the shockwave overwhelms the microphone's recording levels. A vibration descends through the building underneath, as the person with the camera cautiously raises their head.

A swelling fireball has just reached its maximum diameter. It pulses briefly before quickly contracting to a point. Then vanishes, leaving purple smears upon our vision. As well as a pair of singed and smoking bodies on the rooftop.

A new voice crackles over the audio track, young and female.

_"All right, kids. Wrap 'em up."_

Another voice, this one raised in disbelief. _"Non-lethal ordnance?"_

_"That was just a love tap."_ A low and melodious chuckle turns into a grunt as the camera wearer stands. I can see the bodies beginning to move, hear tiny moans and groans now audible from that direction.

"Impressive," I say, as the clip comes to an end.

"Oh my God." Astor is nodding in vigorous approval until I think her head will come loose from her neck. She turns to me, grinning from ear to ear. "I only saw the fireball!"

"That's nothing." The Slayer chuckles as she stows the phone back in her pocket. "This one girl from Alabama? We pulled our team out after a week."

I consider. "House full of armed relatives?"

"And a town full of armed friends." Faith is already standing, doing what appears to be a last minute check before taking off. "Plus a witch who plays for the white hats."

Astor appears uneasy. "Like your friend?"

"Hey, they're all over the place." Faith shrugs and offers a crooked smile. "Toss a stone, you'll find a witch."

Astor frowns like she's trying to work this out.

"I think it's a joke," I offer. Astor rolls her eyes at me.

"Basically." Faith shrugs. "My friend likes that one. But she's kind of a nerd."

"Oh!" Astor sits up, having just remembered. "I had a dream."

"Slayer dream?" Faith is appropriately serious. While I still can't seriously credit the notion of prophecy, I've had firsthand experience with a seer doing their best to turn my life upside down. Luckily for me, she was insane. And I have powerful friends.

"I don't know." Astor shakes her head, obviously troubled. Faith nods.

"It can be hard. Sorting that shi--" Faith clears her throat. "Sorting that stuff out."

"I only remember one thing." Beneath her newly developing tan, Astor's looking rather pale.

Faith exudes patience. Unflappable confidence to avert any apocalypse.

"What's that?"

I see Astor's fingers clench. The hand that hangs at her side, forming into a fist.

"It was about Mom."

  


* * *

  


_Astor --_

_Faith's told me a lot about you. Don't worry, it's all good._

_First, if there's anything we can do to help -- PLEASE, just ask. The new Watcher's Council is a progressive organization in all the right ways. Who knows? If the apocalypse stays put off by the time you get to college, maybe we can swing a scholarship._

_Second - You probably know this already, but Faith is solid. One hundred percent, my hand to whoever's in charge. I know I'm a complete stranger and my bona fides don't carry any weight. But there it is._

_Finally: Even with all this modern convenience, it will never be easy. I'm sure you can think of all sorts of people who sacrifice some part of their life for the rest of us. Sometimes all of it. And it's no different for a Slayer. No matter how much of the bad old days we've managed to put behind us._

_I wasn't that much older than you when I lost my mom. Trying to balance my calling with the rest of my life has brought me a lot of heartbreak and pain over the years. But if it weren't for my friends -- the ones who have always been there for me -- I wouldn't have bothered to go on living. I wouldn't want to._

_Stay strong. Do your best to protect the innocent, and the people you love._

_I believe in you._

_-B_

  


* * *

  


The trip advisor had given a time of four days. This was a leisurely pace that would allow the would-be driver plenty of rest from Minneapolis to Miami, as well as the luxury of spending the night at the Gaylord Opryland. He hasn't been driven or desperate enough to put in trucker hours. But as he pulls into the gas station on the outskirts of Orlando, feels the sun beat down on his fair-haired head as he steps out of the car, Owen can tell the lack of sleep is affecting him.

He hadn't even considered flying. Not with packing heat for the first time in his life. He'd shot rifles in his teens -- mostly skeet, though he had a few friends who grew up in hunting families. It had never been a big deal, and he had soon gravitated to other interests. He remains sufficiently aware of his own inadequacy; the lack of training, the clumsy application of what little he's managed to complete. He has to keep telling himself it doesn't matter. As long as he's more of a danger to whoever he's aiming at.

The air inside the building is non-conditioned, oppressively humid. Owen stands in front of the open beverage cooler long enough to feel some sense of relief. Then he grabs an energy drink and heads for the counter, ignoring the fetching cashier's attempt to upsell him on lottery tickets. He changes his mind at the last and goes for the cheapest option. It's a bust.

"Better luck next time." The cashier's sympathy appears genuine.

"We'll see." Owen pastes on a smile. "Thanks."

The car is blazing after a mere five minutes outside. He rolls down the window and pops open his drink, the alkaline chill sending bubbles up his nose. The resulting coughing fit leaves him red in the face, or so the glimpse in the mirror confirms. A sensation of lightness inside his head conjures up images of a tumor lurking deep within.

Maybe his love for Lumen had metastized; turned malignant. James had called it obsession. Owen didn't try to put a name to the notion that things were not as they should be. Obligation, perhaps. Even duty wouldn't be too out of place.

He's not on the hunt for dragons to slay. Nothing would make him happier than to be able to return to a boring, normal life. Except nothing makes sense. Not anymore. And in the absence of normality, the one thing that can restore Owen's sanity is for the world to make sense.

He takes a deep breath. Puts his hands on the wheel, at ten and two. Checks his side mirrors and adjusts the rear view, avoiding his own tortured gaze in the reflection. In a few hours he'll be in Miami; check himself into a cheap motel, sleep the sleep of the dead. If he intends to gather information, Owen needs to be at the top of his game. Only then can he put together an actual plan of action.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon as he pulls out. Hits the interstate and gets up to speed, taking scant pleasure in the breeze from the window.

Owen is many things. Right now, he's mostly a man on a mission.

Is it a mission from God?

He'd love to be able to care.

  


* * *

  


Steven Benjamin is not a particularly happy guy. Not now, not lately, and not really that much in general.

He's always had a bit of a temper, ever since he was a kid. His marriage had been appropriately rocky from the beginning, with enough smooth sailing that he could hold onto the hope it would all work out. But Janine had miscarried, and he'd lost his shit job, and he'd been without work for over four weeks when she drove him from the house. Much as he wanted to let loose on her, he knew perfectly well she didn't deserve it. And he also knew that one punch -- or even a slap -- would never be the end of it. One way or another, his life would be over.

Though he doesn't know how it can get much worse. This morning he'd woken up on the floor of the shower stall with a throbbing head, only to immediately realize that he'd forgotten to phone in yesterday to the state's online unemployment system. His vape has already malfunctioned, forcing the indignity of having to bum a cigarette from the prostitute who'd been assigned to this area. He's been trying to quit, but a man could only take so much.

Feeling encroaching despair, Steven reaches up and turns on the water. The pressure is for shit, but it does bring some mild relief. He wriggles out of his soaked jeans and shirt and closes his eyes. Time to turn off his brain for a while.

A crash from the other room causes him to bolt upright. Steven looks wildly about, momentarily disoriented.

He grabs the faucet and shuts off the water. Not a sound from outside. He forces his lungs into motion, breathing with his mouth open.

The drip of water is the only sound. And now Steven's heart leaps into his throat as he remembers. His gun is out there lying on the table. Purchased only three days ago, in the hopes he would never need to use it.

A surge of panic overwhelms his caution and Steven rips the curtain from its hanging rod in his haste, almost slips on his way to the door. For a brief moment he considers the dangers of facing an opponent in the nude, possibly fighting for his life. But he's already out and through, looking this way and that as he holds out his hands in a vague gesture meant to combine offense and defense.

"Don't move."

It's a woman's voice. High and naturally soft, hardened by fear.

"Can I turn my head?" Steven can't believe how calm he sounds as he stands there dangling and dripping. Probably the surreal nature of it all. Of course something inexplicable would happen to him, at the worst of all possible times.

"Slowly."

Steven is not surprised to see someone standing by the table, aiming his own gun at him. It's not even all that odd that he fails to recognize her, despite the familiar ring to her voice. She's pretty and blonde, her slim figure adorned by a somewhat rumpled light summer dress. But the next words from her mouth may be the last thing he expected to hear.

"Where are my children?"

Steven swallows his immediate reply. Whatever kind of crazy this woman is on, something tells him she won't be easily convinced. Not of his innocence; not of his ignorance. He knows why that voice sounds familiar. That quiet, desperate plea is the sound of someone at the end of their rope.

"I don't know," he manages. "Can you describe 'em?"

"Don't fuck with me!" The blonde woman is keeping her voice down only through incredible effort. The barrel wavers, once more steadying upon his chest.

"Lady?" Steven's neck is getting sore. He'd like to turn and face her, but somehow showing her his dick doesn't seem like the greatest of plans. "I don't know you. I don't know your kids. And you need to put down my fucking gun!"

The last words come out more vicious than intended. Steven shuts his eyes, awaiting an outcome.

"I don't know you." The quiver in her voice makes his heart sink as she continues, forcing iron control to keep herself from breaking down. "I woke up here. And I just want to know."

He opens his eyes. She's still staring at him, the gun trained dead center.

"What have you done with my childr--"

Her voice turns to a scream. For a moment Steven feels like an action star. Faster than a speeding bullet.

A line of fire runs through him. Pain blossoms like a flower, unfolding inside him, pulsing out in waves. It's already starting to fade as he hits the floor, clutching the wetness spreading across his chest.

_Janine,_ he thinks, for the final time.

If only he could apologize.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleeing the scene. Having the talk. An intimate moment. And another step on the road to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never in my life bothered with this sort of crap and I'm not going to fill this space with it. Just know that I'm always open to polite inquiries and dialogue made in good faith. But if your response to anything I write is to insult me, or assume or presume bad faith on my part, my most likely response will be to ignore your words and continue writing my own. Regardless of what you think of the opinions voiced by any of my characters, if anyone reading my fic thinks I'm trying to "send a message", then I've failed as a writer. But have I entertained you? Was it worth your time to read? I hope so. And as always, I hope to see you again soon for the next installment.
> 
> * * *

As far as run-down fleabags go, the Westbridge Sleep-Rite was an unremarkable example of its kind. Whether out of criminal solidarity or fear of retaliation, most residents were known to invoke their right to remain silent with remarkable frequency. Any investigation into wrongdoing in the vicinity was guaranteed to fall short of critical witnesses. As a result, many things could take place in broad daylight and -- at least so far as the law was concerned -- go completely unnoticed.

This was more or less the train of thought running through Trina's mind as she watched the door to suite 321. She'd been working this motel for a month now, scoping out the regulars. 321 had moved in last week. Split from his wife, he said. Decent guy. Hadn't tried to hit her up for a freebie. It would be nice if he wasn't dead, but the sound of gunfire from within is unmistakable.

The door flies open, hits the wall with a bang almost as loud as the shot. The woman stumbling out stares all around, fighting to get her breathing under control. The shoulder length blonde hair and light summer dress have the disheveled look of having been slept in. But it's the eyes that draw Trina's attention. Confusion and terror; side by side, neck and neck, with each one struggling to take the lead.

She instantly pretends to be nodding off before those terrified eyes can meet hers. She's done enough dope to fake it with the best of them. Plenty are the times Trina's waited for others to fall asleep for real, cleaning out their stash before making herself scarce. She relies on her hearing and peripheral vision, trying to track the stranger's movement.

Of course from here there's only one way to go, assuming this potential suspect wants to avoid contact with her. As expected, the woman turns right and runs toward the staircase. The sound of her footsteps is odd until Trina's brain identifies the cause. As the blonde hits the bottom and dashes across the parking lot, Trina sees her frantic pace increasing, hears little yelps as the barefoot shooter tries to minimize her contact with the steaming ebony surface. Then she disappears around the corner, her cries of pain fading away.

Looks like they both got lucky. Any other potential observers were smart enough to be inside before and to stay inside after. Nevertheless, Trina wastes no time in hightailing her tail the hell out of there.

You never know when the police are going to do their job.

  


* * *

  


Joe Freeman spends most of his waking hours drunk. He prefers it that way. Anything that helps him continue in this vein is to be celebrated and pursued with vigor. His appetites are simple, his attention span appropriately short-lived. He's carved out a spot among the cardboard boxes in this alley, and he's not about to give it up for anything short of murder.

He perks up when he hears someone running. That could mean trouble. Oddly, it's a barefoot sort of running. He hunches back into his nesting cave, watching the gap where it opens onto the street.

A pretty blonde in a summer dress appears, clutching something to her belly like she's trying to hide it. She looks positively frantic as her gaze moves from one dumpster to the next.

Joe's about to give in and shift position when she runs over to the bakery dumpster. She's messing with the thing in her hand; grabbing up part of her dress and rubbing like mad, trying to wipe it down. Then she lifts up the lid, hurling it inside with a metallic clang.

He admires the view from behind as she turns and runs off, the enticing jiggle of poetry in motion. As she turns the corner Joe gathers up his things and -- with no little regret, and serious effort -- climbs to his feet. He can probably convince the guy in the next alley over to let him stay a while. No point in sticking around here.

Still, he muses. He hopes things work out all right for that woman. That whoever she used that gun on got what he deserved.

Silly to even think on it. To speculate about justice, or bad luck.

No sense getting involved.

  


* * *

  


I know I'm probably in trouble when Astor says she wants to talk.

"Really." I try to make my surprise sound positive. Astor isn't fooled.

"You said you're a good listener." My daughter's tone is dead serious, even as a sort of nervous energy seems to swirl beneath her surface. She's wearing the platform boots that were a present from Faith. It's not much of a height advantage, but enough that I notice. I wonder if she'll be as tall as her father. I'm certain she'll be taller than Rita.

"I can be." I hope I'm not sounding overly modest. 

"Well --" Astor's enthusiasm is dubious at best. "I kind of need advice too." 

This is what I get. I figured a reduced workload during my first week would be good for everyone. So after going back to work yesterday, today is my day off. I'd been feeling good this morning, changing my own dressing with no sign of fresh pus. Now it looks like my luck has run out.

Astor her never relied on me historically for emotional support. It's almost like she knew better than to try. But since our discovery and exploration of her incredible abilities -- strength, coordination, instinctive fighting skills and more -- our relationship has grown, slowly deepened to the point of great and mutual trust. The tension-fraught confrontation where she demanded from me the truth about her mother's death could have been the end of everything. Instead, that encounter had only strengthened our bond, whereas my relationship with my sister had suffered in the wake of Deb's disillusionment. At least she had Faith for support. It might not be the kind you came home to every night. But I didn't want to imagine how Deb would have dealt with all of this if she'd been going out with Quinn. Or if she was single.

Just because I understand these things slightly better than I used to doesn't make me any more comfortable discussing them. Particularly when said understanding is still theoretical. 

"Have a seat." I indicate the chair across from me. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, sharpening the contents of my kill chest. With my secrets revealed to my immediate family and my blood slide trophies safely disposed of, I feel less inclined to throw away a fine set of expensive and useful tools. I'm looking forward to leaving them to Astor some day.

"What's up?" I set down the stone and the blade I'm working on. I can multitask, but people tend to get upset if they think I'm not paying attention. Depending on the topic, I often wish I wasn't.

"Well -- " Astor's not sitting down. She holds onto the back of the chair as she stands there, engaging in minor fidgeting. "I don't want to embarrass you."

"I appreciate that." I don't think I sounded sarcastic.

Astor sighs, affecting colossal boredom at the very mention of the subject. "It's about sex."

"Oh," I say. "Okay."

Part of me must have been expecting this. It doesn't really help. Astor is clearly wrestling with whatever wording is about to come out of her mouth.

"Take your time," I suggest. "You want some coffee?"

"No. I mean -- no thanks." Astor sighs again, this time genuinely weary in body and soul. I sit there counting my heartbeats. She looks like she's about to ask me for help removing a splinter.

"I don't know if I'm gay."

"Oh." My first thought is to not repeat myself. My next is to pass the buck. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather talk to Lumen?"

Astor grimaces, but doesn't look away. "I was kind of hoping the vampire girlfriend would be a last resort."

I know I sound skeptical. "You mean after the serial killer stepfather?"

Astor can't help rolling her eyes. I'm surprised she lasted this long.

"Reformed serial killer." Astor looks like she can't believe I resorted to such lame tactics.

I do my best to brighten the mood without actually smiling. "How can I help?"

Astor looks hopeful, then dejected. "You could make coffee."

She doesn't have to tell me twice. I'm relieved to stand up, go to the counter and pull out the accessories, busy myself with the ritual. My French press having survived the fire at my old apartment, Lumen had found herself again resorting to coffee to calm her nerves, as she'd done when I'd first installed her in this house. The difference now was it needed to be good enough to keep her from ripping someone's throat out. Astor had tried it one night and found it to her taste, at least with enough cream.

"You remember when I went to Scotland?" Astor watches me from her seat, hands clasped together on the table before her.

"It was just last week." Everything else is set up as I put the kettle on to boil. "You brought me haggis."

Astor's face screws up in a scowl. "If you open that can in this house, I'm moving out."

"So what happened?" I extend a cautious probe. "I thought you had a great time."

"I did! It just --" Astor takes a deep breath, puffing it back out in an angry exhalation. "I was there three days and I got hit on twice!"

"Oh." I have to think about that. "How old were the...hitters?"

"Oh --" Realization floods her face as she strives to reassure me. "Fifteen and fourteen. But -- kind of not the point. You know?"

"Gotcha." At least I think I get it. Slayer Central is an actual castle in the rural highlands. With a population eighty percent female, sixty-four percent of whom are under the age of eighteen. "So --"

"It's not like it's _super_ illegal," Astor confirms. "Or super evil. Or even super creepy. Just -- never mind," she finishes with a mutter, looking down at her hands. "It's stupid."

"No," I say. "No, it's -- it's really important. All these things are."

I can hear the water starting to simmer. Excited molecules bang against metal, colliding with one another in their frantic race to the top.

"I just don't know." Astor heaves another sigh. "I mean, sure. I've wanted to kiss boys. But it's all so --"

She breaks off, looking at me with open suspicion. 

"You don't know what I'm talking about."

"Kind of," I say. I feel our talk slipping further and more quickly out of my control. "Mostly." 

A frustrated growl rises in her throat. Astor stares at me, raising her voice to a desperate yell.

_"Lumen!"_

"I really am trying." I sound defensive again. I can't help it. "If you just give me a chance --"

The whistle of the kettle serves as a perfect distraction. I pour water over the grounds, enjoying without words the smell that tickles and tantalizes my neurons. I'm pushing down the plunger when Lumen walks in, naked and dripping.

"You bellowed?"

"Oh, God --!" Astor's frustration is at maximum, her face rapidly turning red as she turns to stare at the wall. It's not like my girlfriend is fully exposed or flaunting herself. Lumen's holding a towel, but she's casually drying off, making no attempt to cover herself.

Astor's sigh is more of a growl. "Would you please educate my socially retarded father?"

Lumen tips her head sideways to dry inside her ear. "That's not very nice."

"You're a vampire." Astor sounds like she can't believe her own ears. Her flush of anger intensifies, spreading down her neck. "What do you care?"

"It's called common courtesy." Lumen sounds a bit testy as she straightens and crosses both arms over her chest.

Astor shakes her head, her volume escalating. "It's called putting on some fucking clothes!"

"Language," Lumen and I say, at the same time.

Astor lets out a half-crazed laugh. It sounds like she's on the verge of tears.

"She's right, you know." I make sure to look Lumen in the eye. "A person might think you were...being deliberately provocative."

Lumen frowns and opens her mouth. Then she chuckles and shakes her head. She's still holding the towel against her chest. With the fabric falling so as to cover her groin, she actually looks quite modest.

"Sorry."

Astor averts her eyes again as Lumen turns around, heading back to the bathroom. I, on the other hand, am feeling pretty comfortable admiring the view. Maybe I am turning into a caveman.

She emerges in seconds, tying a knot in the sash on Rita's old bathrobe. As she walks toward us I'm struck with a powerful wave of _deja vu_. Lumen looks up, her expectation instantly turning to confusion.

I look over at Astor and see exactly what I expected. I'm about to say something when Lumen gets it.

"Oh." Lumen looks down at her robe, and back up. Her growing discomfort is plain as she returns Astor's hurt stare of betrayal.

"I..." Lumen swallows. "I wore this. The first time I spent the night."

Astor gives a silent nod, looking brittle as a statue made of glass.

Lumen sounds like she's trying to sooth an angry bear. "Do you want me to --"

"It's okay." Astor doesn't look okay, precisely, but she does look better. Less murderous; more resigned. She laughs and shakes her head, motioning for Lumen to sit in the remaining chair. 

"So." Astor takes a deep breath. "How did you first know you really wanted to kiss someone?"

"Oh." Lumen's realization turns critical, as her eyes widen. "Oh."

I feel compelled to intervene. "You don't have to --"

"It's fine." Lumen's troubled look stems from something I can't place. She turns back to Astor with a thoughtful frown. "Celebrity, or real person?"

"Huh." Astor considers this for a moment. "I guess real, but -- if you want to say both..."

"No, no. Celebrity is --" Lumen covers a cough. "More embarrassing."

"Huh." Judging by Astor's decidedly calculating smile, this particular tidbit won't be forgotten.

"I didn't actually know his name." Lumen chuckles and leans back in her chair, gazing into space. "Dark hair, not too muscly. Barely taller than me. He must have been...sixteen? I was fourteen. Going swimming at the Y. And when I saw him, on the high platform --"

Lumen gives a little grunt of pleasure, as her teeth sink into her lower lip. Astor looks titillated and repelled.

"Cause I'm looking up, right?" Lumen realizes where this looks to be going, and shakes her head. "No. I did not see up his trunks."

Astor tries to repress a smile.

"But the first thing I see? Is his legs." Lumen sighs in fond recollection. "Then his chest. And his chin. And...that was basically it."

I'm not sure how much of Astor's discomfort at this point stems from my presence. As far as my own discomfort goes, the jury is still out.

"I'm probably lucky I never saw him again. But if you want to know _how_ I knew?" Lumen shakes her head. "I never really thought too much. About what I wanted."

Astor nods, momentarily lost in thought. Lumen looks hesitant.

"What's this about?" Lumen raises a hand. "You don't have to get -- too specific. If you don't --"

"It just --" Astor fumes. And stews, before finally bursting forth. "It feels like all these people want me to be gay."

I blink.

"Not just at the castle," Astor quickly interjects. "And not just girls."

Lumen appears equally at sea. My daughter sounds even more annoyed as she continues.

"Even more -- they act like I should be. Like I'm supposed to be." Astor exhales through her open mouth. Her anger reminds me of a young bull, pawing at the ground. "Like there's something wrong with me if I'm not."

"Do you think there's anything wrong with it?" Lumen raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Being gay?"

"No!" Astor practically shouts. She forces her volume back down. "Why does everyone always ask me that?"

"It's just -- the pendulum of society." Lumen holds up one hand and makes a seesaw gesture. "You know. Swinging the other way."

"I remember that story," I comment. "Guy almost got sliced in half."

That's Lumen's cue to fight a reluctant smile, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. "I see why you called me in."

Astor's disgruntlement knows no bounds. "Tell me about it."

  


* * *

  


"Mmm." A smile curls at the corners of Deb's mouth as she lies sprawled across a stunning pair of breasts. "I could get used to this."

"You mean breakfast in bed?" The ribald chuckle sets fire to her ears.

"Sleeping in, douche." Deb rocks to one side, making a half-hearted effort to headbutt Faith in the chin. "Plus you. Actually spending the night?"

"Don't want to cramp your style." Faith sounds casual on the surface, but with greater caution. "Or start any vicious rumors at the office."

"There you go again." Deb's doing her best to not sound irritated. "You don't have to protect me from everything."

"Well -- not like I ever had a job," Faith says. Her arm is rock steady around Deb's shoulders, her fingers idly stroking the other woman's hair. "But I know how bad workplace politics can get."

"They've been yelling dyke since Eileen Wurzel got flunked out of the academy for blaming her fuckups on me." Deb dismisses this concern as she burrows deeper into Faith's embrace. "And you're leaving at noon. You really want to spend the next hour discussing this shit?"

"I can think of things I'd rather do. But last night?" Faith buries her nose in Deb's hair, inhaling deep and letting out a satisfied sigh. "Kind of hard to top."

Deb snorts. "You sure are."

"Watch it." Faith reaches down and lands a smack on her ass. It's a token gesture, barely felt. Still, Deb relishes the tingling feeling slowly spreading out from the point of impact.

"See -- this is why I can't introduce you to my crew." Faith shakes her head. "I got a reputation."

"As what?" Deb laughs. "The town bicyc--"

She breaks off, looking ill at ease. Faith remains silent.

"Sorry." Deb's tone is quieter. "That was uncalled for."

"It's okay." Faith doesn't sound angry, or resentful. More like reconciled. "I like your guys. They're good people."

Deb swallows her immediate retort. She can easily sense Faith pretending not to notice. It's the one thing she's been holding back since all the craziness with Darla and Drusilla went down. Not like that was the worst of it. Somehow, it's not enough that her own brother managed to be the real Bay Harbor Butcher under everyone's nose, including her own. No, the fucker had to go and retire right as he was discovered. Disappearing into the mist of history, to be anonymously entered into the record books as the undefeated champion.

She still hasn't asked Faith about her own past.

She's not ready to hear about someone else she loves being a murderer.

Faith clears her throat. "Remember what I said about Slayer dreams?"

"I think so." Deb thinks back, looking up for confirmation. "How they can tell the future? Sort of, sometimes?"

"Right." Faith captures her gaze. The look in her eye may not be life or death, but it's definitely serious business. "If Astor says something. Even something she's not sure about -- you check it out. Okay?"

Deb exhales, searching the Slayer's face for more. But nothing is forthcoming.

"Okay."

"That's all I needed to hear." Faith leans down with a gleam in her eye.

A professionally obnoxious ringtone fills the room. Deb glares at the bedside table, weighing whether to answer the call.

"Go on." Faith gives her a nudge and a kiss on the shoulder before sliding out of bed. Deb watches a moment longer as the Slayer rummages through the pile of clothes on the floor, then rolls over and grabs her phone. 

"Morgan."

 _"About time."_ Quinn's irritation is quickly supplanted by the usual urgency. _"We got a body. Westbridge Sleep-Rite, room 321."_

"I'm on it." Deb disconnects before her ex can send out another probe. Quinn's the pesky sort who alternates between blissful ignorance and a strikingly keen sense of observation. At least now she understands his concerns about Dexter. Not to mention those of the deceased Sergeant Doakes.

 _Mother fucker,_ Deb thinks. All she knows is that if her brother ever decides to fall off the wagon, he won't have Harry Morgan's little girl to worry about. She's going to let Faith deal with him. And if it means breaking Astor's heart?

So the fuck be it.

  


* * *

  


It's not even noon and a light breeze is coming in over the bay. Still, the heat is enough to make Owen want to crawl out of his skin. The last time he'd been in Miami had been the more seasonable part of the summer. He's sitting at the same coffee shop where he'd told Lumen to meet him. Where he'd left the extra plane ticket, torn in half as he stalked away from the table, more angry than he'd ever been in his life.

The anger didn't last. But still, there was love. Enough to ensure that he would never give up.

His last lead on her location was this place. The old number for her cell phone has been disconnected. But maybe she still uses the same email.

Owen doesn't know how to find out himself. But he's a smart boy. Enough to know there are ways and means.

However much it turns out to mean, he'll be ready. The overnight bag in the trunk is hidden under a pile of garbage bags. It contains just shy of fifteen thousand dollars, withdrawn from his savings account over the last four months. The private investigator he's chosen is only a few miles away, open til six.

"Need a refill, hun?" The waitress hovers uncertainly nearby. With his buttoned down blazer and slacks, the brand new pair of fashionable horn rimmed glasses, she probably expects him to ask if she's accepted Jesus as her Lord and savior. And that's before the vacant look in his eye, his tendency to stare off into space with his lips silently moving.

"Decaf's fine." Owen smiles. It must be all right, because the waitress visibly relaxes.

He leaves her a twenty. Small enough to not raise any red flags; big enough to make a difference. But he doesn't wait around to see the look on her face. It's not for him.

No good deed goes unpunished.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two views on one investigation. The start of another. Making nice with the wicked stepmom. And a positive identification.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any good Buffy fan may have already figured out what's going on, more or less. If not, don't worry. All will be revealed.
> 
> * * *

Joey Quinn is understandably not happy about losing his best girl to another chick. No matter how hot she might be. He is, however, very pleased to have Deb back on the job and working at his side. He can't remember the last time she took medical leave, and whatever she's been through these last few weeks has left her pale and bruised, with a haunted stare to send a chill through the heart of any empathetic observer. What was scarier was that it seemed her brother had taken the physical brunt of whatever they'd faced together. More than once Quinn's tried to ask for details, only to be rebuffed. 

He at least knows that a certain blonde is back in town, after overhearing Deb on the phone. She'd been bitching at Dexter about his girlfriend and her creepy attitude, and Quinn heard the name _Lumen_ before Deb noticed him sitting at his desk. It reminds him of Liddy, charged up and humming with excitement over some great and terrible secret he thought he'd uncovered. Whatever it was, the grizzled ex-cop seemed certain it would bring down the dastardly Dexter Morgan once and for all.

And then the man had turned up dead in a surveillance van. Killed by a knife, with a single expert thrust. Not a trace remained of any evidence he might have collected. But Quinn remembered the photographs the man had practically shoved in his face. Dexter and Lumen, out on his boat, at night. Dumping plastic bags overboard.

He's still not sure if Dexter planted the blood on his shoe. He wouldn't put it past him. Guy seems like a fucking magician. Either way, Deb's brother is most definitely responsible for the lab results that cleared Quinn of all suspicion. That alone should raise a dozen red flags with anyone.

So it may sting to have loved and lost the smartest, toughest, hardest-fucking woman a guy ever met. Especially to someone who looked like she fit that same description ten times over. But Joey's determined to make the best of it. As long as they're still breathing -- limbs attached, organs in their proper place -- his world will continue to spin on.

He watches Deb studying the scene from the open doorway. She's been weirder than ever about her brother since whatever went down. But Quinn won't deny the guy knows his shit. If they need help, he won't hesitate to ask.

"You wanna call Dexter?"

"It's his day off." Deb shakes her head. "I don't think we need him to draw us a picture."

He has to admit it seems pretty straightforward. Except those can be the ones that lead you most astray. A naked man lies dead on the stained and threadbare carpet, staring up at the ceiling with a look of terminal surprise.

"Let's start with the obvious," Quinn suggests. "You give the place a once over, see if I missed anything -- but it looks to me like the guy heard something when he was in the shower. Came out, stood there dripping for a minute. Then bam."

"Probably had a gun pointed at him." Deb treads carefully as she steps around the corpse. "Tried to go for it. See the wet spot's all the way back there?"

"Like I said." Quinn does his best to keep the irritation from his voice. It's all rhetorical questioning, bouncing ideas off your partner. Confirm even the most basic shit, while working toward something greater.

"And no sign of the gun?"

"Not yet. Couple boxes of thirty-eight on the table." Quinn shrugs. "Seems like a safe bet."

"You think ballistics will match?" Deb crouches next to the corpse, peering at the surrounding bloodstains. "Hold on."

"What you got?" He hopes it isn't too obvious. 

"See there?" Deb points at the smear across the victim's chest. The thinner parts are dry and beginning to flake away. Near the exit wound the blood is still moist, forming a viscous and clotted pool that trickles down his side and onto the floor.

"He fell face down." Deb's finger follows an imaginary path as she flips her hand. "Turned over on his back, before he died."

"Nice catch." He sees it now. Totally obvious. "Think it means anything?"

"Every little bit helps." She shakes her head. "You talk to anyone yet?"

"Manager's no good." Quinn chuckles. "I know. Shocking."

"And no other wits." Deb stands up, looking like she's been offered a champagne flute full of bloody horse piss. "Think we can find one working security camera in a two block radius?"

"You mean a camera someone's willing to let us see?" Quinn pretends to think this over. "That doesn't have everything mysteriously overwritten?"

"Check out Mister Cynicism." Deb's got a glint in her eye Quinn hasn't seen for too damn long.

"It's called being a realist, Morgan." Quinn can't help but respond with a good old-fashioned needling. He peers down his nose, with an absurdly disapproving frown. "When did you get all born again romantic?"

"If you can just refrain from your pessimistic predictions?" Deb arches an eyebrow, fixing him with that sexy crooked grin. "I guarantee you something is gonna go our way."

"As long as we put in the work." Quinn nods. "Let's get to it."

  


* * *

  


"OW!"

The cry of pain comes as no surprise to Astor. Not when she's the cause of it.

"Sorry." She reaches out, intent on helping Lumen up. The older woman glares at her, blatantly refusing aid as she climbs back on her own two feet.

"I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose." Lumen's tone manages to be both defensive and hostile.

"It's called sparring." Despite wanting to maintain a fighting stance, Astor finds herself folding her arms over her chest. "It's what you signed up for."

"You are a devil child." Lumen grunts and rubs her increasingly bruised backside, then raises her hand to press against the small of her back. Her feet are bare and she's wearing an old pair of Dexter's sweatpants, along with a sweat-stained white T-shirt that clings to the slight swell of her breasts. Strands of hair have come loose from her ponytail, the result of their mutual and violent exertions.

"Want some water?" Astor finds herself once more split between sympathy and snide comments. "Blood?"

"I'm good." Lumen stares at the floor.

The floor in this case is actually a ten by ten padded mat that Dexter set up in the spare room. What with Cody on the way, Astor isn't sure how much longer they can use it for training. But it'll be worth it to have the family back together. And her brother will be overjoyed that he won't have to give up having his own space. She just wishes it counted as his own house. At least then Lumen would need an invitation.

Apart from the obvious and biggest issue, Astor has all sorts of reasons to resent this woman. Even the vampire who tried to get under her skin, play them off against each other, had only scratched the surface. But whether as a Slayer or a human being, it's hard to get past that mountain of ill will.

"You want to run to daddy?" She can't resist returning the heat, with a bit of a jab. "Tell him the little girl's picking on you?"

Lumen's glare is more hurt than angry.

"I don't want to fight." One corner of Lumen's mouth twists into a grimace. "Not like that."

Astor doesn't say anything. She's already feeling guilty, but damned if she'll admit it.

"And in case you hadn't noticed?" Lumen raises both eyebrows, as if pointing out the obvious. "You're a little stronger than I am."

"It's like you're not even trying!" Astor realizes how overwrought she's beginning to sound, bordering on unhinged. She forces the frustration back down. It takes more effort than she'd prefer.

A slight, unhappy laugh comes from Lumen. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Yes you do." Astor's laugh is decidedly more cynical. "You can't help it."

"You're right." Lumen stands up straighter, returning Astor's intense scrutiny. "And it's why I don't."

Astor glares back. Then she sighs, slowly shaking her head.

"I don't get it." Astor pronounces this like a courtroom verdict. "I don't get you."

"I know you don't want to hear it." Lumen's bravado doesn't quite conceal her trepidation, bordering on fear. "But I love your dad."

Astor can't help but feel sorry for her inadvertent adversary. "Faith says vampires can't love."

"Do we need to go over this again?" Lumen walks right up to Astor and stands with both hands on her hips, glaring down. She may not be as strong as a Slayer, but she's still a grownup. Also a head taller.

"Well." It comes out as more of a mutter. Astor resists the urge to shove her hands in her pockets, dig her foot into the mat, as she drags out her grudging admission. "It would help if you could defend yourself."

Lumen regards her with keen assessment. "So you didn't have to protect me."

"Yeah." It comes out too quickly. Astor nods, hoping this will be enough.

Lumen goes for the jugular. "Do you trust me with your brothers?"

"I want to." Astor can't be anything but honest. "You know what'll happen. If anything...happens."

Lumen slowly nods, lost in thought. Finally Astor reaches out and takes her by the hand. It's far more effort than anyone might realize, making contact with undead flesh. The demon in her is repelled and simultaneously driven to murderous rage by the competing energy animating that insensate tissue. That was how everyone at the castle had described it, Watcher and Slayer alike.

Astor doesn't know how that friend of Faith's could possibly stand it. All she knows is that she can feel the vampire in Lumen, plain as day. It only makes their already problematic relationship even more fraught with peril. But as long as her new foster mother abides by her stepfather's Code, it's enough to keep the peace.

"Come on." Astor gives a gentle squeeze of reassurance. "You try throwing me for a change."

  


* * *

  


Deb's glad to be back on the job. So glad, in fact, that she's hardly had time to worry about how to handle her ex-boyfriend. The last thing she expected was for there to be nothing to handle. Other than a few nosy questions about all that weird shit a few weeks back, the subsequent medical leave for her and Dexter, Quinn has been a perfect gentleman and partner every step of the way. It's refreshing, but it's also disturbing. And really not cool how it makes part of her yearn to be back with him.

It also makes her wonder how long this blissful state of affairs will last. Because she's carrying around a metric shit-ton of newfound knowledge, and it sometimes feels like at any moment she will break. The slightest provocation, the least little offense. Someone could bump into her in the checkout line and the next thing you know she'll be standing over the dead body of some innocent citizen. Or be dragged away in a straitjacket, shrieking at the entire store about things that go bump in the night.

Then again, what's crazy is how it's the craziest shit that's keeping her sane. And it all seems thanks to a random hook up. Fueled by loneliness, her awkward encounter with Masuka's tattoo artist, and far less alcohol than she would have predicted. Not to mention a girl who was hot as fuck. But then things got weird, and the weirder they got the more she'd clung to Faith like a rock in the tsunami of insanity that threatened to engulf their lives. Now she's engaged in the first long-distance relationship of her life that actually feels like it might be the real thing.

What feels weird is being back on the job. It feels good. Just weird. Even after nearly an hour of canvassing the neighborhood around the Westbridge, with assistance from two other officers, she's not ready to give up. Whatever else might happen today, Debra Morgan refuses to let it get her down.

"Smoke shop guy says he saw a blonde in a dress run by, going that way." Quinn points down the alley. "No idea when. Couldn't say if he heard shots."

"Well, it's better than jack shit." Deb regards the semicircle dumpsters with a look of distaste. "Ready to get dirty?"

"Way ahead of you." Quinn runs forward and boosts himself up on the edge of the closest receptacle, clambering inside.

"Asshole." She's close enough now to see the owner's sign on the front. "You would pick the bakery."

"What are you talking about?" Quinn's already digging through the bags. "I left you Chinese."

Of the following twenty minutes, the details are better left unsaid. Deb knows it's been twenty minutes because her phone is sitting out, on a crate next to the dumpster. She's just glad to be working on an empty stomach. It doesn't prevent her from nearly losing it at one point, dry heaving to the point of cramping up. To his credit, Quinn only lets out a brief chuckle. He doesn't even slack off long enough to watch.

"Double asshole." It takes four tries to spit loose the string of drool hanging from her mouth. "I hope you develop a gluten allergy."

"Now is that any way to talk to your faithful bloodhound?" Something metal taps the inside of the dumpster, echoing out and all around like a bass drum. "Look what Daddy got."

"Triple asshole!" Deb stares at the upraised gun, dangling by its trigger guard from Quinn's upraised finger. "No way you just found that!"

"You're right." The rest of Quinn pops up, wearing a cheeky grin. "I found it twenty minutes ago."

"What the fuck?" She's about to unload everything she's got and then some. But his grin has that dopey quality of someone pulling a fast one.

"I'm kidding." Quinn gives her an eyebrow to match the grin. "It was two minutes."

"You shit nugget." Deb pulls an evidence bag from her pocket, holding it out so he can drop the gun inside.

"What can I say?" Quinn climbs out of the dumpster, brushing himself off. "You were a little busy paintin' the town."

Deb rolls her eyes. "I'm really glad you're not an asshole."

Quinn looks touched as he removes a piece of something foul from her shirt. "I'm really glad you're not a cunt."

"I can be." Deb can feel herself start to blush. Luckily, Quinn has other priorities. He claps her on the shoulder, making a show of wiping off his hand.

"Come on." Quinn sounds every bit as affectionate as when he asked her to move in with him. "Let's get this shit to the geek squad."

  


* * *

  


"So this ain't the Geek Squad." The man across the desk regards Owen with a practiced skepticism. A private investigator by trade ("Call me Jones"), he's a few inches taller than his visitor and nearly half again as wide, with the body of a quarterback gone slightly to seed. Mostly muscle, with a minor gut and arms like concrete slabs even inside the sleeves of his off the rack suit. His close-cropped black hair is without a shade of grey, but Owen thinks he can see one or two in the mustache.

"At this level," Jones says. "You got two options."

Owen nods, even as he strives to keep his freshly concocted story straight inside his head. The best lies always utilized as much truth as possible. With that in mind, he had spun a tale of woe wherein his fiancee might have gotten pregnant. How Lumen had left him at the altar; skipped out of town without a backward glance, acted like a total stranger when he managed to track her down. Came home, refused to see him, then left as suddenly as she'd returned. She certainly wasn't hitting him up for alimony, and many men would have been happy to leave it at that. But whatever the case, it was more painful not knowing the truth.

"Basic package." Jones holds up a beefy index finger. "I can tell you if someone's using that address. That's all -- but it's cheap. Lot of folks go that route."

Owen's not up on the finer points, but that's why people hire professionals. "What can you do with that?"

"You'd be surprised." Jones doesn't elaborate. You have to figure that a man wouldn't want to give away any tricks of the trade. Or do anything that might conceivably reduce the need for his own services.

"Second option," the PI continues. "I try to find out who's using it. Which is probably what you're after."

Owen nods. He expected as much. "And how much does that run?"

"Varies." Jones offers a vague shrug. "This one doesn't sound too complicated. You gimme a sec, I can quote you a flat fee. That covers most scenarios."

"Sounds good."

He tries not to fidget in his chair while he waits. Does his best to appear reasonably attentive, without staring at every last little move the guy makes. Wherever the fine line resides in most people that determines their judgment of their fellow human beings as _crazy_ and _not-crazy_ , Owen knows he's been brushing up against it all too often as of late. Only he can know his own mind. But whenever he catches someone else giving him that look of sympathy or wariness, he always takes a moment to reflect. And at some point, there will be a time when he comes to a line in his own life. Whether or not he can see it.

"Five hundred for one week." Jones rises smoothly from his chair, walking round the desk as Owen does the same. "Non-exclusive -- I'll be working other cases. But you get equal time, every day of the week or until I get results. Anything I don't spend, I keep fifty percent."

Owen nods and sticks out his hand. He's already wincing internally. But the man's grip is merely appropriately forceful, well shy of pain.

He returns the shake with renewed confidence. Somehow, he chose wisely. This is the guy.

"Oh -- anything over a thousand?" Jones is looking apologetic as Owen counts out a stack of twenties. "I prefer a money order. The IRS gets kind of pissy about too much green stuff."

Owen hazards a guess. "Or not enough?"

"Go figure." Jones snorts. "What can you do, right?"

  


* * *

  


Something is wrong.

What it is, she doesn't know. It could be many things. But there's only one thing foremost in her panicked and chaotic thoughts. Only one thing visible, in the screaming hurricane of chaos that is her mind.

She's long since left the dumpster behind. Her feet are blistered from running on concrete, from the heat of sun-drenched asphalt. Her purse had been missing from the bedside table, no sign of it anywhere in the room. That purse had everything. Her ID, her phone. Her gun --

Almost everything.

She claps a hand over her mouth, struggling for control. Only one thing keeps her from breaking. It's the same thing that's kept her whole throughout every trial and tribulation. The one good thing remaining in her cursed and wretched life.

Even in a low-rent district catering to the underprivileged, the days of payphones all around have long died out along with Superman. But if she can keep from sounding too crazy, she just might be able to awaken someone's inner Samaritan. And you never want to look too vulnerable. In her current state, she's chum for the sharks.

It takes a few minutes. Standing outside the cutrate convenience store, trying to look casual; checking for possible stray bloodstains, barely able to conceal her rampant paranoia. It's all too much like the handful of times she got high with her first husband. Back when it was all still mostly good.

She straightens her dress and checks her reflection in the window. The cashier gives her a suspicious glance from behind the double glass, then goes back to arguing with her current customer, a young man wearing a cap turned backwards. Her curls and earrings shake and bounce with each dramatic swoop of her hands, her long and colorful nails slashing the air like a raptor's talons.

She takes a deep breath and opens the door. The cashier pauses in her diatribe, turning at the sound of the jingling bell.

"Can I do for ya, hun?" The cashier punctuates this with a smack and a pop of cherry-red lips. 

"Did you hear me?" The backward-hatted youngster looks ready to speak to the manager. "That shit is still on sale!"

"And you will just have to take that up with corporate." The cashier's automatic drone becomes a normal voice as she returns her attention to the newcomer. "Whatcha need, baby?"

"I --" She clears her throat. "I lost my phone. Do you have one I can use?"

The cashier frowns, looking her up and down with a critical eye. She's about to apologize and try her luck elsewhere when the other customer turns on his heel and shoves his way out the door, leaving his beer on the counter.

"Thought that man would never leave." The cashier reaches underneath the counter and pulls out an enormous black purse. "Here you go, sweetie. You just use mine."

She can't trust herself to speak for a moment. Instead she swallows hard, trying not to cry.

"And you probably want some privacy, don'tcha?" The cashier doesn't wait for a reply. "You got that look. Well, I tell you what. You just head right back that way -- bathroom's to your left, and you take as long as you want. Okay?"

She can manage a nod. Even a thank you, once her breathing returns to normal. But with a lifeline within reach for the first time since her awakening, she can feel her strength once more on the verge of crumbling.

She makes it into the bathroom and locks the door. The water from the sink is warm and not at all refreshing. Still, it does the job of making her look less haggard in the mirror. She'd like nothing more than to fortify herself with a glass of wine, like she'd done last night for the first time in over a year. But there's no time like the present.

No one else is going to do it.

Her finger trembles as she brings up the virtual dialpad. Pushes zero, remembering bygone days of yellow pages. 

"I need the police." Somehow, she remains calm. "Miami Metro, please."

The operator's reply might as well be a computer. She listens to the silence as connections are made, behind the scene.

_"Miami Metro Police."_ The voice is young and female; professional, but with a note of actual warmth. _"How may I direct your call?"_

She takes another deep breath, trying in vain to slow the hammering in her chest. "Lieutenant Batista, please."

_"I'm sorry --"_ The voice pauses, offering a cautious possibility. _"We have a Sergeant Batista?"_

"I --" She fights back the renewed wave of confusion. Whatever else may have happened, there's only one man in the department who bears that name. A rock solid bear of a man, who made her swear that she would call on him at any time. No matter what.

"Yes, please."

She tries to ignore the growing acid feeling in her stomach. It's hard to imagine what could have gotten a devoted cop booted back down the ladder. Especially this soon.

A simulated ring comes down the line. She counts three before it picks up.

_"Batista."_

"Angel --" Relief surges through her, leaving her weak in the knees. She fights to keep her voice down. "I don't know what's happening! I woke up, and my kids -- Astor, and Cody, and -- H-Harrison, they're all..."

She swallows a frantic sob. It's only as she regains control that she realizes the other end is dead silent.

"Angel?" She can feel her courage failing. If only something would shore it up. "Hello?"

_"Who is this?"_ Angel's voice is very quiet, as if he's trying to keep from being overheard.

"It's Rita!" Again she fights with all her strength. It's not for her sake that she has to remain calm. "I'm telling you! I woke up, and my kids were --"

_"Rita who?"_

The words are a knife through her gut. Even harder than before, an implicit warning.

"Rita Bennett --" A sob wrenches from her throat as everything comes crashing down all over again. " _Morgan!_ "

Her eyes are shut tight. She's getting dizzy, her head throbbing with tension. She can hear Angel breathing on the other end, just loud enough to come through.

_"I don't know who you think you are."_ Angel's voice is still deadly calm, but he sounds more angry than Rita can ever remember. Even when they found out the truth about Dexter. _"But this is not funny."_

"Angel --" She can feel her world coming unmoored, slipping away beneath her burnt bare feet. Nothing makes sense anymore.

_"No. You know what this is?"_ Angel overrides her attempted protest. _"This is a sick joke. And it ends now."_

"You don't understand!" And neither does she. But she can't explain. He's going to hang up. And she'll be all alone --

_"So you listen, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once."_ Angel's fury is below absolute zero, each word a blade sinking deep in her flesh. _"This ain't for you, understand? This is for everyone else you're trying to fuck with. Cause they're not gonna hear shit about this."_

She can't bring herself to speak. She stands there, trapped by her reflection in the mirror; holding the phone to her ear, one hand over her mouth. A lost lamb, being led to the slaughter.

_"But you pull this again? I will have this traced. And I assure you -- it will be prosecuted."_ A bitter chuckle. _"Or I could hand you over to the widower's sister. And she can kill you just by calling you names."_

A roar of blood rushes through her ears.

_"Have a nice fucking day."_

She can barely hear the click of disconnection as the phone slips from her fingers, bouncing off the tile with a clatter.

"You okay in there, hun?" A gentle tap on the door. "I give you a minute, all right?"

She crumples to the floor, clutching her head. Isolated words flashing through the remains of her mind. _Joke._ _Traced._ _Prosecuted._ And over all the rest, in Hollywood-sized letters to blot out the sun: _Widower._

And through that thought, another.

Unconsciousness looms, threatens to swallow her whole. And even as she falls and fades, Rita holds on to the first good thing yet on the growing list of impossibles.

"Deb?"

Grief and joy collide within her soul. But one thing outshines them both, as the darkness claims her.

Hope.

_You're alive..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up a second time. Continuing investigation by all concerned parties. And a bearer of good news is greeted with mixed emotions.

A low hum drones and pulses far above. A faint breeze tickles her skin. But the air is stale, the walls close in.

Her eyes remain tightly shut as she extends her senses. She's lying on her back, on what feels like a lumpy couch. The noise from above now sounds like a fan. As her eyes open, the slowly spinning blades confirm this.

She watches them until she starts to get dizzy. Then she heaves herself upright, in one swift motion.

"Careful." A gentle grip on her shoulder holds her steady, sporting rainbow nails, a plethora of jewelry. It's almost a comfort. Until the rest of the insanity comes crashing back down. For a moment, she can't breathe.

"You want some OJ?" Ringlets of dark hair dangle past a pair of plump and rosy cheeks. "Blood sugar's a bitch, am I right?"

"I --" Rita doesn't trust herself to speak. Instead she accepts the wax-coated cardboard rectangle, clutching the box in both hands as she stares at the wall.

The office is tiny enough that she can see everything without looking around, with barely enough room for the couch and a desk. An antiquated laptop sits open on the desk beside a sprawl of fashion and beauty magazines. The wall she's looking at has a cork board tacked up beside the desk, covered in what look like family photos. To its left and directly in front of her is a poster of a kitten, backing away from an enormous pit bull. Except the posture and body language, the composition of the picture itself all combine to leave the dog the one looking worried, the kitten's open mouth and fangs promising dire consequences. The caption that underscores this sentiment reads:

_**YOU WOULDN'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M ANGRY**_

"You tried callin'?" The cashier nods, her gaze warm with compassion. "And it didn't work out."

Rita shakes her head, suppressing a mad laugh. Once she starts, that'll be the end of her. A fitting postscript after losing everything else.

"I don't mean to keep you --"

"I got my boy runnin' the register. Be good practice." The woman nods at the untouched juice box in her hand. "How 'bout some water?"

"Yes." Rita nods back. "Yes, please."

She sits up and leans back on the couch, staring again at the cracked and stained ceiling. The mere thought of standing up makes her stomach clench, threatens to dismember the final shreds of equilibrium. The important thing is the same as always. Focus on the kids.

The bottle is cold and wet, fresh from a styrofoam cooler under the desk. Rita doesn't mean to start guzzling, but it's hard to stop. She holds a hand to her brow, unable to find pleasure in the mild cooling relief.

"I'm very confused."

She manages to not sound too pathetic. Paul had been the start of it, but her first major fight with Dexter had been the thing that made Rita hate the sound of her own voice. Talk about crazy. Kick a suspected addict out of your house because you think he's having an affair with his sponsor. Which serves as the catalyst to make him actually have an affair.

If only she hadn't taken him back.

"I don't know what's happening." She strives for cruel neutrality. The voice of the nine o'clock news. "I tried going to the police. But everything..." An off-key laugh joins the crinkle of plastic as her fingers clutch the bottle.

"No," she concludes. " _Nothing_ makes sense."

"And I'll bet there's a man at the bottom of it." The cashier offers a knowing nod as she eases into the chair behind her desk. "You don't gotta say."

Rita merely laughs again. It's getting easier, even if nothing else is. All she can think of is her mother. Warning her to behave, to sit up straight. To look both ways before crossing. When you're in trouble, go to the police. And --

"The library." The haze is lifted from her thoughts, leaving a memory crystal clear. "My mom always said -- if you want to find something out?" Rita nods, and manages a smile. "Go to the library."

"You know they store your search, right?" A ruby-tipped finger beckons. "I gotcha covered."

Rita stands on shaky legs, with one hand on the desk. She doesn't let go as she maneuvers her way around, squeezing her way into what little space remains on this side.

"Guest account." The cashier rises to her feet with an effort, holding out one hand to the empty seat in clear invitation. "You take as long as you need."

Rita has no idea how long this tiny streak of good luck will last. But while it does, that's one gift horse she won't question.

Time to ride the wave.

And get some answers.

  


* * *

  


"You know what I hate most?" Deb aims for the wastebasket. The crumpled paper hits the edge and rolls away into the far corner. "Out of all the phases of an investigation? This part."

"Missing a three-point?" Quinn doesn't look up from his desk as he carefully fills in the blanks on one of the department's many forms, frowning in concentration as he strives for legibility. LaGuerta's been reaming them all out for weeks. It sucks when a case gets dropped for any reason, but it's particularly humiliating to take an L for nothing more than poor recordkeeping.

"Waiting on someone else's work." Deb wads up another piece of paper, bouncing it off the side of Quinn's head. "All you can do is sit around and speculate." 

"Well, don't do that." Quinn squints at a line toward the bottom. "You only got one pair of pants."

Deb makes a strangled gagging sound as she mimes shoving two fingers down her throat. "How long have you been waiting to use that?"

"Since your mom told me --" Quinn breaks off with a growl, throwing down his pen and resting his forehead in one hand. "Sorry."

"For what?" Deb finds herself taking a closer look. Her ex-boyfriend actually looks ashamed of his idle remark. "Would you be this sensitive if we were still going out?"

"I was shit talking." Quinn looks over at her, with a mix of puzzlement and irritation. "And then I was apologizing."

"And you don't need to." Deb stands up, walks over and takes a seat on his desk, staring down at the handsome jackass. "I was twelve. I'm over it. And I don't want to live in a world without your mom jokes."

"You mean mine specifically?" Quinn offers a lopsided hint of a grin. "Cause I know what you think of Masuka's."

"Do not remind me." Deb peers down at the half-finished report. "You want to commit to that?"

"I just don't see first degree." Quinn looks up at her with a questioning air, seeking confirmation. "Maybe not even second. I mean, of course we need more. But looking at what we got --"

"You think the shooter panicked?" Deb throws it out for them, testing the waters. "Don't move, I'll shoot --"

"Vic makes a move." Quinn nods. "Maybe figured he could get it away from her."

"So you're going with the blonde." Deb tries not to sound too skeptical. "A blonde in a dress. Who might have been in the right place at the right time."

"I know, it's --"

"With no other description," Deb concludes. "Not to mention a witness you could smell from outside the store."

"Pot may do a lot of things, but it doesn't cause hallucinations." Quinn's got that stubborn set to his jaw again. "But if you'd care to put some money where that mouth is goin' --"

"I'm not betting against you." Deb says it more forcefully than is polite. She reins it in, adding a softer note. "Just poking holes in your theories. Like I'm supposed to."

She's actually glad Masuka chooses that moment to poke his own head into the office. The flourescent shine off that bald pate casts a sheen of light that outlines him in a silhouette. For a second, he looks like an angel.

"Um -- Deb?" 

She's more than ready to deliver a potent zinger, as always. But the look on his face is enough to stop her cold. Vince peers at her over his glasses, with a brief sideways glance at Quinn.

"We have a problem."

  


* * *

  


I'm in the meat department when I realize I forgot to bring the shopping list. This isn't the first time. I'll have to try taking a picture of it with my phone.

Fleeing the comfort and safety of home wasn't my first choice. But Astor and Lumen seem to be getting along, and I really didn't feel like I was making any meaningful contribution to their discussion. After a certain point, you just have to step back. Take a more hands-off approach.

Besides, we really do need a few things. I just can't remember what all of them are. My real hope is that I can make it back home without getting a call from Lumen. Or Astor.

A part of me yearns for the days when my problems were simpler. More concrete. But it's clear to me now there's no going back. I've managed to reassemble a patchwork family, from nothing but broken shards and Krazy Glue. If anything should be strong enough to shatter this fragile reconstruction, I can't imagine what I might do.

I wonder what it would take to get Lumen to violate the Code. When it comes down to it, I can't imagine I'm really that different. I don't know anything about the finer points of having a soul, or the lack thereof. But I can all too easily imagine more than one scenario where abandoning the last strictures of my father's law doesn't just make sense. In the gravest extreme, it might be the only option that does.

I'm perusing pork shoulder steaks when the sound of a generic ringtone reminds me I keep forgetting to install custom ones. I fish the phone out and peer at the screen, praying for work.

Unfortunately, it reads _HOME_. I can only hope the problems I'm called upon to solve are less than fatal. I also wonder which one of them it is calling.

"Hello?"

 _"Hey."_ Lumen doesn't sound at all stressed. Quite pleased, on the contrary. _"You busy?"_

"Just picking out pork." I smile and step aside for an older lady in a blue sweater, explicitly ceding her my space at the counter. "What's up?"

 _"Nothing. Really,"_ Lumen adds, sensing my wariness. _"Just wanted to hear your voice."_

"Oh." I guess that's nice. "How'd it go with Astor?"

 _"You literally don't want to know."_ A world of meaning is wrapped up in that weary statement. _"But it's all good."_

"You're sure." I want to believe.

 _"I'd be the first to say something."_ I hear echoes of Lumen's own suffering in that quiet reassurance. _"And if she does? If I think you need to know -- you will."_

"Sounds good." Something that heartfelt deserves more. "Thanks." 

_"You owe me."_ A note of wickedness pervades her silky tone, only to be followed by a frank and plain admission. _"And I do need you."_

I say the first thing I can think of. "To go shopping during the day?"

_"To keep me alive."_

She sounds serious. To the point of fatal.

 _"I'm trapped in this house."_ A light chuckle, no less full of pain. _"Again. Trapped in this -- this body --"_

I hear an angry burst of air, followed by silence. The normal rhythms of actual breath are completely missing in a vampire, present only in fits and starts as emotion overtakes her self-control.

 _"You."_ The single word overflows with meaning. _"Your family. They --"_

She falls silent again. 

"We give you something to care about?" I stand in front of the freezer case. Staring at rows of neatly wrapped dead flesh, preserved in plastic.

 _"Yes."_ She sounds relieved to have it spelled out. _"You're my... motivation."_

"Motivation," I echo. "To keep the Code."

Faith may be the expert on vampires.

I'm the guy who has to live with one.

  


* * *

  


"I honestly wasn't expecting to hear from you this soon." Owen avoids sounding more skeptical than politeness dictates.

"No big." Jones displays a short stack of twenties. "Even got a little change."

Owen counts the five with a nod, stowing them away. "So what's the verdict?"

"Mixed." The PI's upper lip curls in something resembling a sneer. With the mustache partially concealing it, the result is ruggedly handsome. "Someone's on it. But they're off the grid."

Owen tries to recall his scanty history of survivalist reality television viewing. "Meaning?"

"In this case? Meaning whoever uses that address has no legal identity associated with it." Jones peers into the coffee mug on his desk, making a disappointed face. "Which you can still do. Few and far between, and you only stand out more, but -- it can be done. If that's your bag." 

Owen's brow furrows. "So they're not literally living in a cabin in the mountains with no utilities? Just --"

"Correct." Jones gives his empty mug a glare of suspicion before returning his attention to Owen. "They could be right here in Miami. Probably are, because it's a local provider. Got a reputation for attracting free speech nuts."

"Really." Owen's head is beginning to slowly pick up speed again. One of these days, it's going to spin right off.

"And various victims of assorted crimes." Jones doesn't sound accusatory as he lays out the facts. "Domestic violence. That kind of thing."

Owen tries not to bite his lip. Or do anything else that could make him look guilty. Right now, that could be anything. 

"Don't worry -- I checked you out." Jones reaches into a drawer, dropping a slim folder on the desk in front of him. "Didn't take long. Clean as a whistle."

"I just want to know what's going on." Owen can't put the truth any more plainly. "I need to know."

Jones gives him an appraising look. "She an anti-government type?"

Owen blinks. "Pardon?"

"You know -- sovereign citizen? Patriot movement?" Jones cocks his head. "Guns and beans and rice and ammo?"

"No." Owen is bewildered why the question would even arise. "Never."

"Everybody changes." Jones shrugs. "Sometimes, the more one thing you are? More you feel you need to change."

"I can't imagine." Owen thinks back to the last two occasions of their meeting. Lumen's hesitance, her subtle agitation.

"Then you ought to start exercising your imagination." Jones raises his empty mug in a mock salute. "It's good for the soul."

  


* * *

  


"This better be good."

"It's not." Vince doesn't look terrified so much as fundamentally, deeply disturbed. And not in any of the multitude of ways Debra Morgan would have accused him of. It's like he witnessed the very laws of nature come undone, just long enough to melt his brain. And nobody else saw a goddamn thing.

"Then what --" With a supreme effort, Deb reels it in. Blowing up at Masuka will only delay his hour of reckoning. And it's not like the guy's an idiot. Even before his own recent brush with the supernatural, she'd been perfectly happy to give the little bald pervert all the props he deserved. Especially with her motherfucker of a brother sticking his fingers into God knows how many evidence pies over the course of his career.

"Then tell me." She says it calm, like a guidance counselor. "What the fuck is so important you need to leave Quinn out of the loop?"

"That motel shooting?" Vince holds up a folder. He looks like he's just swallowed a live jellyfish. "Ballistics is back."

Deb leans in closer than she's ever been to Vince Masuka, her voice dropping to a whisper. "And?"

Vince's Adam's apple bobs as he hands the folder over.

Deb thinks she's ready for anything. Instead, she stands there. Staring at the ridiculous sheet of paper, completely unable to process.

Somewhere she finds her voice. "Who else has seen this?"

"Just you." Vince shakes his head. "I came straight to you."

"And --" She runs her finger down the list. "All those? From the motel?"

"We only got one good print from the gun." Vince send a nervous glance over his shoulder. The break room is still empty, but it's nearly time for the next shift. "And that was partial. But it's a match."

"What the fuck does it mean?" Deb can feel a burgeoning headache just behind and between her eyes. "And why are we getting fucked with it?"

Vince looks as helpless as she feels. He may not be as in the loop as Deb and her brother, but he'd almost lost his life to a vampire hookup. Only the timely intervention of the Morgan clan had saved his Asian ass. Now he lurked out on the fringes of their newly formed Scooby gang, making the occasional cryptic comments at work that left people as perplexed as did his dirty jokes.

"You think it's her?" Vince looks ready to eject a hot load in his pants. And not, as he would say, the fun kind.

"Define _her_." Deb tries to avoid sounding too impatient.

"Oh!" Vince nods, his confusion clarified. "Not Darla. I mean, this was -- what? Twenty after eight?"

"Yeah." Deb frowns. "You're right."

"Besides -- vampire with a gun?" Vince shakes his head. "Kind of weird."

"That dumpster is almost two blocks away." Deb visualizes possible paths in her head. "There's not shit for cover in between. How'd she get that far, wear a fucking burkha?"

"Pretty much what I was thinking. So I figured..." Vince leans in, practically nose to nose. "What if this _is_ Rita?"

Deb glares, ready to rip him a new one.

"I don't mean the original!" Vince quickly raises his hands. "I just mean... you know. The alternate universe one."

Deb stares at him like he's just sprouted a ten foot pink and sparkling horn. "What?"

"You know." Vince struggles to give words to his concept, insistent to the last. "Bearded Spock?"

Deb folds her arms, pronouncing sentence. "There is something wrong with your brain." 

Vince regards her with a look of shrewd appraisal. "And what if I'm right?"

She can't help a laugh. "Is this where you ask me for a date?"

"Hey, I know you've got a girlfriend. I don't expect sexual favors, and under those circumstances?" Vince nods, looking serious. "I wouldn't want them."

"Says you." Deb's rebuttal is half-hearted, a mere formality.

"But if I'm right --" Vince pauses with one finger upraised, before pointing at her. "You're my plus one. And I get to show you off for a night."

Deb snorts. "And all the surf and turf I can stuff down?"

Vince beams, sticking out his hand. "It's a deal."

She makes a show of wiping her own hand. "So what do I get?"

"The satisfaction of being right." Vince is back to looking serious. "I just wanted you to know first. I still have to figure out how to spin it for LaGuerta."

"Do me a favor and sit on it." Deb smiles, but her heart's not in it. "Just for a little bit. I'll see if my brother knows anything."

"If she puts me on the spot, I can say it's a lab mixup. Just -- keep me in the loop, okay?" Vince sounds genuinely worried. "I like my job."

"And I like mine." Deb fixes him with a meaningful stare. "Just keep this under your hat."

  


* * *

  


The Internet is indeed a vast and wondrous place. Rita's done a few searches online; even took a night class, at the local community college. The biggest difference between then and now seems to be the amount of spam and porn links. More than once she's had to backtrack or kill a window, and she's long since muted the volume, positive at any moment her benefactor will return just in time to be greeted by Big Booty Bitches Being Banged In the Butt.

She ends up installing an ad blocker, thankful that the laptop's guest permissions allow such a thing. But her Google account doesn't work, and it locks her out after three incorrect passwords. Wherever her phone is, it's probably ringing off the hook, being robocalled by some random server deep in the bowels of Silicon Valley.

So she can't get to her email. But all the search engines are working. And the Miami Department of Public Records now offers even more information than ever before, free for the asking.

In the course of an hour, Rita Morgan -- _nee_ Bennett, _nee_ Ackerman, _nee_ Brandon -- discovers dozens of disturbing details. About the man who ruined what was left of her life, the searches are revealing for what they don't show. Not only is Dexter Morgan alive, he's more well than any decent human being deserves. Because every webpage she can pull up that bears her name is about how tragic it was that this lovely mother of three -- recovering from years of dysfunction, having finally married the man of her dreams -- was brutally murdered in her own bathtub.

She has to stop there, for a bit. She sits there dabbing her face with cold water, her bare chest and shoulders. The scars from that night are faint, requiring close examination to see. Except the one across her face.

No one ever mentions that.

The grieving widower leads a quiet life. A mention or two, here and there. But the headlines aren't where the action is.

It's the property rolls.

_3319 Meadow Lane_

Sold. By Dexter Morgan, days after the date of her death.

She swallows, holding one hand to her chest as she stares at the screen. Her heart is beating faster than usual. Understandable.

She scrolls down. Purchased by Tom and Louise Maxwell, with intent to --

She leans in and squints. The lettering is miniscule, scanned in text from a fax page. But the gist is that the Maxwells reneged on the deal, claiming they'd tried and couldn't handle the "oppressive atmosphere". The bank had reclaimed the mortgage. Whereupon the property had been sold again. To...

Bile rises in her throat; smoldering in her gut, at the sight of that name. She wants to pick up the laptop and throw it at the wall.

She sits there breathing. Drinking her water.

Finally she turns back to the terminal. With hands that tremble only slightly, she types a final query.

_Debra Morgan_

  


* * *

  


Astor's in the kitchen when she hears the phone. It takes her a minute. She's warming up Lumen's blood in the microwave, because she's such a nice person, and she almost picks up the house phone on the wall before realizing it's her cell phone. The sound is coming from her bedroom and she bolts for it before skidding to a halt, remembering the blood.

"It's okay." Lumen smiles, rising from her seat at the table. "Thanks."

You don't have to tell her twice. The junior Slayer turns and flies from the room, exploding into her own like a rocket as she dives for the overnight bag on her bed. Only a few people would be calling her on this number at all, and the odds are overwhelmingly on one in particular.

"Hello?"

 _"Astor!"_ Cody's giddy shout comes over the line like the crest of a wave. She can feel her heart swell with joy at his happiness, at his very life.

"Hey there!" She's trying to be cool, but her own exuberance can't help shining through. 

_"Hey."_ Formalities concluded, there's an awkward silence before Cody speaks up again. _"Is Dexter there?"_

"He's at the store right now." Astor considers. "You want him to call you back?"

 _"I --"_ Cody's excitement returns in full. So much so, it seems her little brother wil burst into flames, like one of those blimps in old newsreels.

 _"Grandma and Grandpa?"_ Cody's rhetorical questions rush on, gathering momentum. _"How they let you finish early? And I asked them if I could do it too? So I could come live with you guys now? And they said --"_

"Wait a minute --" Astor tries to protest. But there's no stopping this train.

 _"They said if I got perfect scores on all my tests I could finish early? And I did! I did it!"_ Cody's practically yelling in her ear. _"And if Dexter says it's okay? I've got almost all my stuff packed, and Grandma and Grandpa can drive me down this weekend, and --"_

He runs out of breath, panting like he's just run a mile. Astor lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling. Thinking about secrets, and how hard it can be to keep them.

It's not like she doesn't want him here. Back home again, a part of her everyday life.

She just thought she'd have more time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A more intimate moment, if a tad less traditional. Isolation, in a strange new world. A brief business meeting. And a shocking confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a sex scene. Nothing like the one in the previous story. For one thing, it's a lot happier. But of course you know I couldn't possibly get to it without plenty of emo foreplay.
> 
> * * *

It's raining when I get back from the store. Harrison is tuckered out from playtime and more than ready for a nap. I unload groceries while he tries to help, but his state of cranky exhaustion leaves him too frustrated, on the verge of tears. I'm about to give in when someone else intercedes.

"I'll put him down in your room," Lumen says. She still calls it that. She's been sleeping in the spare room for a few days while she finished moving her things in. I've been trying to coax her into the master bedroom, to no avail. I can't imagine she thinks I'm trying to seduce her.

Astor watches Lumen leaving the room. Then she catches me, watching her.

"I thought the two of you worked things out," I say. I don't want to sound like I'm lecturing her. Except I think that's exactly what I'm doing.

"As long as --" Astor shakes her head and hands me the ketchup. "It's fine."

"Is this mutually assured destruction?" I set down the ketchup and look her in the eye. Every day she inches closer to my own height. Some day soon, I won't have the advantage.

For now, I can still make her fidget. Astor's gaze slides down and sideways, reluctantly back to me. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm relying on both of you to keep each other out of trouble." I glance over at the bedroom, then back at Astor. "And to keep an eye on me."

My daughter gives me that time-honored look: _You're crazy, dad._

"And again I ask," Astor says. I can hear her trying to be patient with me; hear the exasperation, her deliberate playing up of her own sarcasm. Again I'm struck by how teenagers truly are larger than life, in every word and gesture. "What do you mean?"

"I'm just saying -- nobody's perfect." I finish stowing the last of the groceries, handing her an armful of empty bags. "If all the parts of a system are stronger --"

"Then the whole system is stronger." Astor pauses, uncertain. "Right?"

"That's right," I confirm. "We all look out for each other." 

Astor actually smiles. Then the sour mood returns, as she looks over at the bedroom door.

"I know what's going on." She looks back at me with a growing rebellious air. "You want me to go see a puppet show."

"You don't have to go anywhere." I really am confused.

"Trust me." Astor laughs and shakes her head. "I'm doing you a favor."

"It's raining." I congratulate myself for stating the obvious as I follow her out of the kitchen. Astor rolls her eyes and opens the front door.

"See? Barely sprinkling."

Before I can object she's out and gone, running full speed down the sidewalk. I hope no prospective track agents are watching.

"Be back before dark!" I call, as she disappears around the corner. You'd think you wouldn't have to tell a Slayer. Then again, nighttime is their preferred time to hunt. Just like their prey.

"I thought she'd never leave." Lumen presses up against me with a sigh. The tension seems to drain away, leaving her body at rest. Literally at peace.

"I soaked in the tub for you," she murmurs. "Got all nice and warm."

"I can tell." I turn around, wrapping her in my own embrace. She's wearing one of my T-shirts. I don't think there's anything underneath.

It's a nice distraction, but I can feel a kernel of unease in her as we depart the kitchen. We walk down the hall toward the bedroom, passing rows of pictures on the wall. 

Harrison is well and fast asleep in his increasingly confining crib. Another thing we'll soon be leaving behind. I'm about to comment on this when I see Lumen, wearing an odd look as she stares at the vanity mirror. I glance over only to be reminded of her absent reflection.

"Would you --" She bows her head and folds her arms, looking up at me with an almost guilty expression. "Would you take my picture? With your phone?"

"Sure." I dig it out and find the app. "You think we need flash?"

Lumen remains uncertain. I smile to show my support.

"We'll do both."

The hard part is getting her to smile in a way that seems natural. I finally end up with acceptable results, but it requires patience. Also catching her off guard.

Lumen shakes her head as she stares at the tiny screen.

"We can put it on my computer," I suggest. "Actual size."

"It's not that." Lumen frowns at her avatar. "I look at myself now -- and I don't know what everyone else sees. But I don't see a normal girl. Not any more."

I gently prompt her. "What do you see?" 

"I see this...beast." A shaky little laugh emerges. "Just -- this savage _thing_. Wearing a mask."

"I see a normal girl." I take her chin and turn her questioning face toward mine. "And a savage thing...who fought to survive."

I hope she doesn't cry. Even from happiness. Either way, I find it awkward.

She lays her head on my chest. I think she's listening to my heartbeat, and she probably is. Then I realize she's staring at the bed.

"It's beautiful," she breathes. I am not immune to the irony of this verb. "How much did it cost?"

"I don't remember." It's a classic four poster, king size. With the sheets, pillowcases and down quilting, I remember it set me back a hefty portion of a paycheck.

I'm about to estimate when I see Lumen's face fall. It's the same as when she saw Astor looking at her, wearing Rita's bathrobe.

"Oh God." Lumen turns away, covering her mouth with a clenched fist. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Despite my handicap, I think I know. Still, it's best to be sure about these things.

"Because -- I can't get over it?" Lumen's words are muffled by my chest. "It's so stupid. I'm a vampire! I'm supposed to be -- I'm not supposed to --"

I hold her close to me. "To care." 

"Yes." She sounds slightly less muffled. "And we're about to have sex. For the first time, in this house. Not your apartment, not your sister's place -- in your goddamn _wedding_ bed --"

Her voice cracks and I shush away her tears. Rocking back and forth, as I stand there holding her cooling body. I remember her telling me how she'd left her intended at the altar. Fled the ceremony, even her home, leaving everything behind. Only to be thrown into a living hell.

"And Harrison --" Lumen curbs her sniffles, looking over at my sleeping son. "It's so weird. Because as long as he's here? I can love you and not feel guilty about it. But..."

"But it still seems inappropriate?" I hazard a guess. "Actual sex?"

"In that actual bed." Lumen delivers this confirmation while wiping her face with her shirt. My shirt, which she's wearing with nothing on underneath. A normal man right now would be very distracted.

She notices where I'm looking. That's worth a chuckle, and a kiss on the cheek.

"We don't have to," I remind her. "We don't ever have to do anything you don't --"

My disclaimer is swallowed up in a kiss that consumes my mouth. Her body pushes me back, the two of us stumbling, falling on the bed with her on top. Her left hand grips the hair on the back of my skull, pulling my head back as her other hand slides under my waistband.

"And you don't --" My own breath is more shallow, my own heart beating faster. "You don't ever have to --"

Lumen stares at me, fingers gripping my half-hard flesh. Then she pulls her hand back out of my pants. Never looking away, she brings it to her own lips; snaking her tongue around and all over, slathering her fingers with spit.

I stare back, feeling my pulse pound in my neck as she leans down and buries her face in the hollow of my throat. She hasn't gone into what they call 'game face'. The teeth that nip at my flesh are blunt, the bites themselves barely noticeable. Her entire body is quivering as she sniffs and nibbles at me, squirming back and forth over the crotch of my slacks.

I look down and see where those spit-soaked fingers have gone. Between her thighs, my shirt hiked up over her hips. The swell of her buttocks at this angle is even more of a tease; how they tremble and sway, her panting moans growing louder.

I reach up and grab the back of her head, pulling her down as I rise up. Kiss her with all my might, not even allowing her the pretense of breath.

Her frantic self-violation increases in speed and intensity. The bulge in my slacks gives a fresh jerk with each accidental contact, reveling in her inadvertent touch. I'm just wondering if she'll scream when she freezes entirely.

I hold her with all my strength as electric spasms consume her. Tiny cries utter from her throat, muffled by our kiss, turning to soft little moans as her frenzied movement slows. Finally her body lies as still atop me as one dead. Only slightly warmer.

"Oh my God."

I smile against her lips. "That sounds better than last time."

"Mmm..." The groan of pleasure drags out and fades away as Lumen stretches, her body grinding against mine like a cat. "You're amazing."

I feel my brow furrow. "I didn't do anything." 

Her fond chuckle holds a wicked edge. "Then you'll have no problem keeping me satisfied."

I lift her head, force her to look me in the eye. "I love you."

"I don't know why." Lumen leans down to kiss me, burrowing right back into the warmth emanating from my body. "But I think I believe you."

  


* * *

  


The problem isn't that no one will believe her.

Not when she can't believe herself.

It hadn't been easy to leave behind the security of the convenience store and its kind-hearted owner. But in a world gone mad, Rita knows it's best to keep moving. At least she's wearing a pair of sandals, a parting gift from the clerk. Along with the address of this shelter.

She's been here before. Not here specifically, but plenty of others. Mostly during her time with Paul. Many have been the times over the last year that she's wondered if they could have patched things up. If Dexter hadn't framed him and sent him to his death in prison.

That had been just one of the many ugly surprises that came out during the otherwise speedy trial. It had probably been the thing that broke Cody's heart. He'd never seen the worst of Paul, and only the best of Dexter. Losing both his father figures had caused him to withdraw even further, regress to bedwetting. She's been trying to find a counselor they can afford, but without insurance it's a lost cause.

Astor is strong. And smart. She won't fall apart, even in her mother's absence. She'll be the one to look out for her brothers; formulate a plan of action. So much of the past year Rita wouldn't wish on anyone, and yet her daughter has only grown more powerful. Blooming like a butterfly, on the cusp of being born.

"Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you."

The worker seems nice. But right now, she needs to be alone with her thoughts.

She gazes around the room. Scattered cots with all too little room between; small groups of women clustered together, most milling around on their own, their hollow stares ready to flinch at the slightest sign of trouble. A few with that tough air about them, only one of whom actually looks gay. It's been a while since she had to turn a woman down, but she can manage it.

The thought brings tears to her eyes. Of all the insane things being thrown in her face, Debra Morgan being alive is one that she would welcome with all her heart.

"You okay, honey?"

It's the one who actually looks gay. Mostly because of the haircut. But there's no predatory aura, no vibe of taking advantage. Just good old honest sympathy.

"Not really." Rita shakes her head. The stranger sits down beside her, patting the bed between them.

"If you want to talk --" The woman gives a light shrug. "People say I'm a good listener."

Rita doesn't know how she got started. Still choosing her words with utmost care; feeling as though she's tiptoeing through a conversational minefield. For every truth that comes out, two or three lies are sure to follow. She can't even keep them straight any more.

"I just need to know my kids are okay." A shudder grips her, as Rita meets the other woman's stare. "Because I think I'm going crazy."

She should never have said it. Turns out to be the straw that breaks the camel. She's going to the restroom when she spies the presumed gay woman leaning over the desk, engaged in quiet conversation with the worker on duty. Both of them are casting nervous glances in her direction, at the security guard standing outside the door coming in from the lobby. Apparently she's been reported as potentially dangerous to herself and others.

Rita doesn't look back as she enters the bathroom. There's no lock on the door, and no convenient window. But she's just tall enough to reach the ceiling tiles, if she stands on the sink.

The air duct is a tight fit, but the real problem is moving slow and quiet. She inches along like a centipede, hoping she's moving in the right direction.

Light looms at the end of the tunnel. It takes a moment to shove the grate loose. Then she squeezes the rest of the way out, tumbling into a pile of trash bags.

She has no idea what might happen, should she fall into the hands of authority. In theory they have no reason to detain her. But even before her own direct experience had taught her some harsh truths about the world, it was clear to Rita that the police were not there to protect her. They were there to keep the peace. To maintain order.

Of all the cops in the world, only a small handful have earned her trust. And one of them hung up on her a few hours ago. Threatened to have her arrested.

That leaves one. And she's gone too.

But maybe not.

  


* * *

  


The rain has picked up a little, but it's still a gentle one. I can barely hear it on the roof as Lumen stares out the window, her head on my chest. Harrison snores away in his crib, undisturbed by our _tête-à-tête_.

"Sure you wouldn't rather be out there?" I ask her.

Lumen gives me a quizzical look.

"I don't mean during the day," I clarify. "Like -- suppose it was a dark and stormy night." 

"You mean hunting?" Lumen shakes her head, sinking back down onto my chest. "No. That looks way too wet for vampires."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really."

"Oh yeah." Lumen's sounding drowsy again. "You don't want me to melt, do you?"

"We wouldn't want that." I give her a squeeze, with both arms. Her hair smells of lavender and jasmine.

"I used to be scared of thunderstorms when I was little." Lumen is reflective, marveling at her own nostalgia. "I can't imagine being frightened of them now."

"But that doesn't mean you're going to go outside wearing a lightning rod." A note of doubt enters my voice. "At least I hope not."

She chuckles and snuggles in. It's the perfect time for a knock on the door, however soft.

"Dexter?" Astor's using her best do-not-disturb voice.

"Yeah?" Over in the crib I see Harrison move, shifting in his sleep.

"I swear I didn't want to bug you." Astor doesn't sound the least bit sarcastic. "But Cody's on the phone. And he really wants to talk to you --"

"Just a second." I ease my way out from under Lumen. She groans and waves a feeble hand in my direction.

"I forgot he called while you were out," Astor continues, all apology. "I should have written it down --"

"It's okay." I'm still fully dressed, but I need clean pants. It takes a moment, during which Lumen openly ogles my body, her lascivious stare full of lewd promise.

I slip out the door and pull it shut before Astor can peek inside. I probably smell like sex, but it can't be helped.

"Did you have a nice time playing outside?" I know I've made another mistake when Astor rolls her eyes.

"I don't _play_." She says it like it's a capital offense.

"Will you play with Cody?" I ask, as she hands me her cell phone. "When he's back here?"

"Maybe." Astor's flippant tone doesn't quite match the look her face as she turns and walks away. I sigh and raise the phone to my ear.

"What's up, kiddo?"

  


* * *

  


"So if you decide to keep me on? This consultation's free." Jones delivers a hard smack to the side of his coffeemaker, squinting at the trickle of liquid that finally deigns to begin flowing into the pot. "Otherwise -- fifty bucks." 

"Sounds fair." Owen counts out the thousand. "And that covers everything?"

"Up to and including verification of identity." Jones is standing by the coffeemaker. It's the first time since they met that he's seen the man out of his chair. It's like watching a trained bear stuffed in a suit, parading around doing tricks.

"So what's the deal with email?" Owen's pretty sure he has everything straight, but it pays to be sure. Especially when he's the one paying.

"Feds." Jones pronounces it like a curse. "Any hacking into actual content -- they don't like the competition. And I'm not going to prison for anybody. No matter how much they want to throw at me."

Owen thinks it sounds more like honesty than an attempt to squeeze more money out of him. He nods, to show his understanding if not agreement.

"But what I can get you, is metadata." Jones pronounces it like it has twice the actual number of syllables. "Not the emails themselves -- just what they call headers. Who they're from, who they're to. When they were sent."

Owen perks up. "Subject lines?"

"That too." Jones hands him a paper cup filled with something resembling crankcase oil. "All I need is a name."

Owen has to think about it as he sips his crankcase oil. He's reluctant to share more information than is absolutely required. But as Jones had pointed out at their first meeting, anyone could gather data. To interpret that data correctly sometimes required professional expertise.

"Lumen Ann Pierce." He scribbles it down on a legal pad. Another rubicon crossed. Another die cast.

"By the way?" Jones nods at the slight bulge in his shirt. "Hope you got your concealed carry."

"I'm sorry?" Owen's a little embarrassed. He thought he'd hidden it better.

"Florida will honor a permit from another state. If you got it." From the look Jones is giving him, the PI knows this is not the case. "Otherwise -- your call."

"Understood." Owen stands, ears and cheeks on fire as he reaches out to shake that craggy, calloused hand. "I'll be in touch."

He's still fuming as he walks out to the parking lot, a newspaper over his head to ward off the light drizzle. The lot is a tiny square of gravel the investigator shares with a guitar store and bicycle repair shop. It's still two businesses, rather than three; the latter two are owned by the same fellow, their signs jammed together bearing the same crude lettering.

Jones had only been trying to help. Humiliation had been the last thing the man intended. But it seems lately it's always the first thing on his own mind. Any imagined slight cuts to the quick. Decades of self-pity returned in an instant, as though it were yesterday; crashing over Owen's head in a mighty wave, as the undertow pulls him down.

He crumples the newspaper and hurls it into a puddle. According to this morning's forecast, the rain should clear up by afternoon. If so, the view over the bay should be spectacular.

He'll go and sit. Reflect, as he watches the sunset. The same star that illuminates them all regardless.

It'll be a good reminder. Nothing lasts forever.

Not even darkness.

  


* * *

  


"You're not gonna forget?"

"Christ." Deb shakes her head as she climbs out of the car. She can feel Quinn's eyes on her ass. In other words, some things haven't changed. "You were less needy when I was fucking you."

"I just don't want to be standin' out front wonderin' where you are." Quinn sounds like he's cocking an eyebrow. "Even if you are fuckin' that social worker."

"I'll be there, all right?" Deb raps the roof of his car, feeling her cheeks aflame. "Go. God fucking speed."

"Same to you." Quinn tips her a two-fingered salute. He's still grinning as he pulls away, leaving Deb shaking her head.

So her first day back has the potential to be the most fucked up case of her life. She can deal with that another time. This evening will be dedicated to takeout, beer, and a conversation with Faith at some point before midnight. The Slayer's current schedule and timezone allow for one call every day. Deb told her not to bother, but it's nice to be spoiled. Especially when that's not what it feels like.

  


* * *

  


_"If I'd known lesbians could be this drama free?" She's lying in bed with Faith after their second date. Hookup, fuck -- whatever. "I would have switched sides years ago."_

_"Don't knock the D." Faith's wearing a subtle grin. It's enough to spark a hint of jealousy. Enough that her new girlfriend notices._

_"Hey." Faith wears an uncustomarily serious expression. "I still like guys."_

_"Me too." Deb's holding the sheet over her boobs. It helps her feel less awkward. "But I like you more."_

_"Well, you're in luck. Cause homie don't play that." The corner of Faith's mouth curls up. "Not anymore."_

_Deb sits up, still holding the sheet. "What are you saying?"_

_"I'm saying, until I tell you different -- or you me?" Faith cocks that eyebrow again. "We're exclusive."_

_"Exclusive." It's not a word Deb finds herself accustomed to. Funny how she likes the sound of it. "Does that mean you'll be picking out curtains?"_

_"I just mean I don't want you to worry." Faith gently pushes her down again. Leans over her, one arm on either side as she stares down at Deb. "Not about that."_

  


* * *

  


If only, Deb thinks. If only that could have been the least of their worries. But no. Impossible things had to start happening. And once the wheel started to roll, it seemed there was no stopping. This motel shooting, for instance. 

But it's not for her to worry about. Not with the rest of the afternoon and evening still ahead of her.

She orders Indonesian takeout, then checks the fridge. The six-pack is still half-full, and Deb puts all three in the freezer before she starts running hot water. Her rendang should be at the door by the time the tub is full. Then she can pull one beer out to enjoy with dinner, stick the other two back in the fridge before they explode. The only downside is no dessert, but it's probably for the best.

She's unbuckling her gun belt when the doorbell rings. Her first instinct is to finish removing it, before she thinks there's no way her dinner could get here this fast. She's not expecting trouble, but force of habit moves her fingers to refasten everything, batten down the hatches. Everything ship-shape before she opens the door.

In hindsight, she has no idea why she didn't look through the peephole.

Because there's a dead woman on her doorstep.

"Deb!" Tragedy turns to joy, and overwhelming relief. But those eyes have opened wide with fear, the woman frozen stepping forward with outstretched arms.

"Get the fuck back!" Deb can't believe she's fumbling for her gun. All her skills and training gone out the window, as her desperate fingers try to remember the basics of _safety off_. "I said FUCK BACK --"

She barely keeps the recoil under control when her trigger finger decides for her. A high-pitched shriek joins the sound of the shot and the dead woman falls right on her ass, scrambling back and away.

Deb keeps the barrel steady. Trained right between those shoulder blades as her target flees, repeatedly glancing over her shoulder before finally disappearing around the corner of the building.

Her heart feels like it's lodged in her throat. A jackhammer pounds at the base of her brainstem. And even apart from the obvious, there's one impossible thing that stands out from all the rest. Leaves her shaken, not stirred, to the core.

Because there's no way a vampire just showed up at her door.

Not in broad daylight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> Two observations:
> 
> 1) These transitions between scenes are another thing I'm liking more with every update.
> 
> 2) Some things I research, some I don't. Florida concealed carry laws? Check. The legality of hacking someone's email? Not so much.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More impossible things before breakfast. A brief respite from harsh reality. An investigation reaches a turning point. And a crucial truth comes to light.

I've just signed my own death warrant.

Maybe not quite so dramatic. But I couldn't say no. Not when Cody had worked so hard to get perfect scores on all of his tests. I mean, I could have. If I was okay with feeling like the worst bad guy ever. Now he's on his way down from Orlando, a whole two months ahead of schedule.

The spare room is not a problem. We can have it cleared out and ready well before the weekend. What's troubling is not just the prospect of keeping our household's collective secrets, but how readily I gave in. The Dark Passenger would never have been so willing and eager to commit operational suicide. To abandon all hope and throw security right out the window.

My brain is going over the possibilities all over again. As well as coming up with new ones. I can imagine the first time Cody sees his big sister casually lift something heavier than a small car. Or the two of them roughhousing, and the inevitable predictable unfortunate accident. If the fatality rate doesn't get me, the insurance premiums will.

We're going to have to have a family meeting. Figure out some sort of code. As in a secret code, to keep from having to speak the truth of the supernatural in front of my innocent and impressionable stepson. Faith calls this particular method the "gangs on PCP" technique. Apparently it's a time-honored tradition where she hails from.

I'm trying to think of line items for the agenda when my phone rings. I have really got to install those custom ringtones.

 _Deb._ Always a gamble. Given recent events, more so than usual.

"Hey there."

 _"Dexter."_ She says my name very quietly. She sounds like she's just run around the block, barely stopping for a cigarette.

"What is it?" I know where all of my kids are. "What's going on?"

Deb utters a little laugh that doesn't sound at all amused. _"I was hoping you could tell me."_

This is not a promising prelude. It doesn't get any better as we proceed.

"It doesn't make sense," I say.

 _"In fifty billion ways it doesn't fucking make sense --"_ Deb swallows and lowers her voice.

 _"Faith said she had a ton of intel."_ She sounds more angry than before. _"And all of it supposedly confirming that cunt --"_

"You mean Darla?"

 _"-- fucking left Miami with her tail between her legs,"_ Deb concludes. _"Her and her loony little sister."_

"And this woman is running around in broad daylight." I don't know where this is going. All I know is that I don't like it.

 _"So that makes three of us who think the vampire idea is dumb as shit."_ Deb sighs. _"Except Vince has got more than another stupid theory."_

"Oh?" Vince is a pretty smart guy. I'm not sure if I should be worrying.

_"Oh yeah."_

My sister sounds like she's presenting me with my own ashes.

_"He's got fingerprints."_

  


* * *

  


She doesn't know how much longer she can keep going. Not with her last safe harbor in ruins, her one remaining port in a storm reduced to so much wreckage. Even Rita's own thoughts threaten to betray her at every turn, running in mindless circles like an annoying little dog driven mad by its own outbursts.

At least now she's on a better side of town. She heads straight for the outermost outskirts of suburbia, hoping she won't be stopped by a cop or some well-meaning citizen. She's already lost one of her new sandals in the frantic flight away from what she'd assumed would be an unquestioned refuge. It might be the most disturbing thing that's happened since she woke up in that motel room with her purse missing; her children vanished, a stranger in the shower and a gun on the table.

She had murdered that man. Maybe not in the first degree, though she's far from expert. It's not like she was ever a fan of true crime shows. With her own life gone from despair to delight to a non-stop freakshow of horrors, she could be forgiven for never watching a single second of any so-called 'reality'. But her problems were so wide-ranging and varied, so broad and so deep, that even this transgression risked being swallowed up in the maelstrom.

Certainly she had suspected that Deb -- assuming the woman in question actually turned up breathing -- would be somewhat surprised. After all, everyone thinks she's the one who's dead. But in that case, why wouldn't her former sister-in-law be just as overjoyed to see her? Why the hell would Deb pull a gun, freak out like she'd seen a monster? Even try to shoot her?

Oh, God.

Is she a monster?

So many things are different. It's like a whole new world, an entirely reconstructed reality. Like one of those silly sci-fi movies.

It sounds even crazier to say it out loud. Rita realizes she's running her nails back and forth over her forearm, gradually scratching harder as the burn intensifies. She jerks her hand away, looking around.

There's no one else at the bus stop. Down the street a vendor, dispensing his wares from a cart. And over a brick wall, the metropolitan zoo.

She wends her way around to the entrance, praying for free admission. Luckily the gatehouse is empty. She drops her other sandal in the trash can and wanders inside, treading softly on tender feet.

She just needs a good night's sleep. With all of these impossible things, it's not inconceivable that she'll wake up back in the motel with all three of her kids surrounding her, trying to hug her to death. Or perhaps for them, no time at all will have passed. Rita knows her daughter is strong. But she doesn't want to imagine what Cody will do without her.

It takes almost an hour of wandering and trying to look inconspicuous, but she finally finds an unused cage, with a sizable artificial cave. Her good luck holds; the last residents were more hygienic than most, or their keepers more diligent. Either way, it's dry, and there's even a pile of straw that appears completely unused. Probably put down fresh during the move-out cleaning.

She beds down as far back as she can go, around the bend and out of sight of the mouth of the cave. There's enough remaining light she can spot the rear door used by the staff. She heaps up straw on the opposite side of the passage, hoping anyone who comes through won't bother looking too close. In any case, she'll be out of here come morning.

A lot of people have crossed paths with Dexter Morgan. And plenty of them have lived to tell the tale. There must be someone at Miami Metro who can help. Someone in the hierarchy who hasn't sold their soul. Who might be willing to listen to a story that sounds...

"Insane." She whispers it aloud. Testing the sound of it.

Rita doesn't know how much worse it can get before she decides that she really has lost her mind. Or worse, that a thousand schlock movies and TV shows have all this time been getting it right as to the nature of the multiverse. That seems like a far greater violation of sanity. Metaphysical, even.

She curls up under the straw. Listens to the rain, moving in from the north. And she thinks again of her children. Warm and safe in her embrace; knowing only that their mother loves them, and will never leave.

It's a beautiful dream.

  


* * *

  


Owen pulls into the parking lot a few minutes ahead of schedule. It gives him time to shovel down a pulled pork sandwich he picked up from a street vendor, licking his fingers with gusto. He'll have to get two next time. At least some things in Miami are worth the trip.

It's well into the evening hours, but Jones had sounded oddly energized on the phone. Owen's still having a hard time with the notion. Only this morning he was being told it was a lost cause, the proverbial needle in a haystack. Now he's trying to calm his fervent hopes. Rein in the part of him that still dares to dream of something better.

"Coffee?" Jones doesn't wait for an answer. He's actually got a second mug out for Owen. No more paper cups for this high roller.

"Did you find something?" Owen realizes how stupid it sounds the moment the words have left his lips. Jones just chuckles.

"Email." Jones takes a hefty gulp from his steaming mug, making a sour face. "Very little activity since last year. Looks like just after you were talking about."

Owen takes a sip of his own coffee. The bitterness is positively atrocious.

"So there's that first gap, further back. Matches when she ran off, left you at the altar." Jones doesn't sound at all malicious as he lays forth the facts on the ground. "Couple Amazon orders during that time. Nothing else."

Owen tries and fails to derive some meaning from this. "Can you tell where they were delivered to?"

"That would be extra." Jones scratches the side of his nose with a pencil. "You said she came back for a couple months?"

Owen nods. He hopes the man won't ask about their brief reunion. It had made that day in the church seem like bliss in comparison; standing there on the stoop, Lumen's mother pleading with him through the screen door. Lumen herself had been a mere figure in the shadows, barely visible. He'd caught one glimpse of her through the window before Helen had finally threatened to call someone. Owen had no idea who it would have been, what they might have done to force him to leave. Or what he might have done in return to stop them.

"And since that time -- bupkis. Almost." Jones gives a little shrug of his linebacker's shoulders. "Which makes my job easier. So what there is, looks consistent with that account belonging to this woman."

A momentary lightheadedness breezes through his brain. Owen doesn't show a hint of elation, but inside he's pumping his fist. 

"As far as actual people she's in contact with? Only one other address." Jones leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his belly. "And that's where it gets interesting."

Owen's never cared much for that word. Understandably, his antipathy has only gotten worse.

"First, because there's only two messages." Jones holds up a printout at arm's length, squinting at the tiny dots. "Subject line: Hi. That's it. One from her, one reply. Two days after you said she left home for the second time."

So there is someone else.

"Dexter Morgan." Jones holds up an eight by ten glossy. The man in the picture has medium length sandy hair and a sort of rugged good looks that lack the craggy, threatening masculinity of your typical Marlboro Man. His blue dress shirt is open at the collar, his light hazel eyes full of inquisitive charm. Only the smile gives Owen pause. On the surface it looks equally friendly; bemused, even a little unsure. But there's a subtle mockery in those photogenic dimples. It reminds him of every bully he ever met.

When they put on their teacher face.

"So what about him?" Owen nods at the photo.

"He's secondary, so I didn't go deep." Jones rubs the bridge of his nose with a grimace. His eyes are somewhat bloodshot, now that Owen looks closer. "At least I wasn't going to."

Owen is struggling to maintain a poker face. He only hopes this won't lead to additional charges.

"It was fascinating. I mean -- I look up and I've spent ten hours on the guy." Jones hoists himself from his chair and raises his arms, stretching his shoulders in their sockets. "Feels like I could go for weeks and not even scratch the surface. Except that's all there is."

Owen can't parse that. "What do you mean?"

"Surface." Jones holds up one hand in front of his face. He makes a sideways gesture, as if wiping himself clean. 

"See -- he's too clean." The PI shakes his head. "And it looks like someone else knew that, too. Maybe more than one. But one name is what I got."

"Another name?" Owen asks. "Or this guy?"

"Dead guy." Jones hands him another photograph. It's an older man with spikey and receding hair, a grizzled squint and a perverse grin that spells ten kinds of trouble.

"Stan Liddy." Jones lumbers over to stand behind Owen, peering at the photo over his shoulder. "Ex-cop. Busted in an IA sting. Word is he was running some private op on the side, looking into Morgan for a buddy. Then he turns up dead in a surveillance van. Stabbed through the heart."

Another photograph handed over. Owen doesn't want to look, but he does. It's almost comical. Liddy's eyes are wide with shock, a look of terminal surprise permanently etched upon his now lifeless features.

"Most of my cases don't have a body." Jones is rolling a cigar under his nose with obvious relish. He utters a wistful sigh, giving it another whiff before stowing it back in the box on his desk. "The fact that yours has one this soon is what gives me pause. And not just for my sake."

"I see." Owen gathers his thoughts and his courage. But Jones isn't done.

"So I think it's time you talked to a cop." Jones scribbles something on a piece of paper, folds it and hands it to Owen across the desk. "Guy that hired Liddy. Name's Quinn."

Owen accepts the paper with no small pang of qualm. Only through the most stringent compartmentalization has he managed so far to keep things within his sphere of influence. The farther out they travel, the less control he can maintain over the situation.

"That's his private number -- you give him my name. He's a bit of a hothead, but he shouldn't steer you wrong." Jones reaches out for a handshake. "Come back if you need to."

Owen returns the grip. "What if I want to?"

"Ah." Jones smiles. "That would definitely be extra."

  


* * *

  


Rita comes awake with a start. The clean smell of straw reminds her of the farm they visited in the fourth grade, on a school trip. For a moment she's only startled, before memory returns like a fist.

She crawls to her feet, squinting in the dim light. The sun is nearly gone and the outside lamps have come on, casting shadows over the entrance to her hiding place. She can hear voices outside, the sound of workers engaged in moving something heavy. 

Enough of this crybaby nonsense.

Feeling sorry for herself has never done one damn bit of good. If she has gone crazy, if none of this is happening to her, then clearly there's nothing to be done. But she can no longer ignore the mad and miniscule possibility that it's all too real.

She brushes the last of the straw from her hair. Straightens her dress while thinking that despite everything, clean clothes are definitely moving up on her list of priorities. Then Rita Bennett -- for if she has to have a last name, that seems the best of a bad lot -- walks out of the cave with her head high, peering around in pretended confusion.

"Did I fall asleep?" She laughs at her own silliness, shakes her head at the pair of workers now staring at her. "I must have been tipsier than I thought!"

"Guess so." The taller fellow chuckles, turning back to his labor. The short one looks a little more suspicious.

"I'll get out of your hair. Really," Rita insists, carefully making her way down the slight incline. "I'm sorry if I caused any trouble."

"Long as my boss doesn't find out." The tall man doesn't look at her as he squats down, hoisting a sandbag over his shoulder. "Just be glad you didn't have company."

Rita's laugh feels a little forced. Still, the other man seems mollified as she exits the exhibit, giving them a friendly wave. She thinks she can feel his eyes on her, all the way down the path until she's far enough around the bend.

It takes her a bit to locate the fountain again, before she remembers that the wishing well is on the other side of the zoo. The grounds aren't that large, and soon she's wading through the pool, scooping out all the quarters she can find. This would be easier in broad daylight, but it would also attract more attention. She's fighting guilt with every coin, offering silent apologies to whatever god or God will deign to listen.

It's only a few dollars, but it's enough to give her something to hang onto. She uses the tiny inside pocket of her dress to stow her ill-gotten gains, not for the first time blessing her own foresight to sew that in. More than once it's come in handier than she ever would have dreamed. People never expect a woman in a dress to be carrying anything else.

She still needs clean clothes. Especially underwear. But she walks now with a sense of purpose, a confidence that makes passersby think twice about stopping her to demand answers or offer assistance. Rita knows she remembers a payphone near the entrance to the zoo. It may be one of the last in the area, but she can see it in her memory clear as anything. She may be crazy, but not that bad.

Not yet.

Rita doesn't weep when she reaches the entrance and sees the phone; battered and weatherbeaten, but serviceable. Instead she stops and closes her eyes, one hand on the receiver, reveling in the sense of quiet vindication.

She picks up the phone. Deposits a quarter, and dials the operator.

Her heart is beating more rapidly again as the call goes through. Rita prepares herself, even as she hears the line being picked up before a second ring.

_"Miami Metro, how may I direct your call?"_

"I'm sorry." She does sound like it. Really and truly. "I'm looking for Joey Quinn? But I need his personal number."

 _"I'm afraid we can't give that out, ma'am."_ The male officer sounds equally apologetic. _"I'd be happy to connect you to his voicemail --"_

"This is so embarrassing --" Rita breaks off with a shaky laugh. Not too shaky. "Look, I give you my word. I am not pregnant."

 _"Ma'am?"_ The officer's confusion seems at least partially pretense.

"And I don't even think I am. I swear." Her own pretense is bubbling furiously, threatening to spill over. "And I am not some -- some gangster's moll, trying to set him up to be whacked --"

 _"Wow."_ The officer chuckles.

"But I think I gave him something." Rita hurries on, before he can interrupt. "Something bad."

Another chuckle. _"That's our Joey."_

"So all I'm asking -- please, if you could just help me keep this --"

 _"If he turns up dead? I swear."_ The officer's humor reveals a sour undertone. _"I am never helping another damsel in distress."_

  


* * *

  


When Rita died, I thought my world had ended.

It certainly felt like it. For a brief time I even contemplated escape. Grab my bugout bag and run, leave everything behind.

Somehow, I went on. By a stroke of luck I found Lumen. Lost her, and found her again. But when she died, it was only the beginning.

I've often thought of the woman I lied to for so long. Who loved me so much, she forgave me for her own murder. Who gave her blessing to a vampire as her successor in the role of my girlfriend and foster mother to her three surviving children.

Her absence is still a raw wound, beginning to heal. But this is a fresh stab in the same location. A stake, where the first was a knife; broader, rougher and far more painful.

"This was already bad enough." Deb's eyes are haggard as she stares at me across the table. Between us are a few scant sheets of legal size, bearing ballistics and fingerprint results.

"But I fucking saw her," Deb continues. "In broad fucking daylight."

I literally can't seem to think. All I can do is stare at the evidence.

"What does it mean?" Deb's voice is a low hiss. Her eyes flick over to Astor's closed bedroom door. "What the fuck is going on?"

"I don't know." The trouble is, I don't know how to make her believe me. "I swear."

"You swear." Deb shakes her head, clenching her jaw. "The Bay Harbor Butcher fucking _swears_."

I can see the anger building, years of resentment culminating in near total betrayal. Only Faith and vampires are keeping her distracted enough that I can concentrate on the problems I face as a parent and partner.

"Deb -- I swear to you on both our parents. On the fact that I chose you --" I hold up one hand, shaking my head as she opens her mouth. "Over my own brother."

She stares back at me. Swallows, momentarily blinking.

"I have no idea what's going on." My voice is quiet, but I don't try to whisper. That only attracts more attention. Makes people want to listen even harder.

"I wish I did."

Astor's door is still closed. I can't remember how good Slayer hearing is. Good enough that Deb and I are confining ourselves to vague generalities.

"If I did?" I raise my open hands slightly, let them fall back to the table. "I'd tell you."

Deb's still angry. But her rage is slowly being reduced to a simmer, a bubbling stew of bewilderment.

"I just want a normal fucking case." Deb sighs and rises to her feet, collecting up the sheets of paper. "Is that so much to ask?"

I sit at the table after Deb is gone, waiting for Astor to come out and start demanding answers. But the bedroom door remains shut.

I go over and knock on her door. "You want some dinner?"

Her voice is quiet. "Not right now."

  


* * *

  


Joey Quinn has more fond memories than he does regrets. Whether it's ex-girlfriends or one-night stands, he's always lived life in the fast lane. Until the train wreck that was Debra Morgan had left him nothing but a stain on the pavement, he'd thought it was the only way to fly.

Actually, that's totally unfair to Deb. For him, the description sounds about right. Mixed metaphors aside.

Quinn's pretty sure that she spoiled him for anyone else. He's only been on two dates since they called it quits. And while he did get lucky on the second, he has to admit that the thrill is gone. Sex is great, but Rosie Palm is still better than most women. Especially when he finds himself thinking about paying them to leave. Past a great piece of ass, a little intelligent conversation doesn't seem like too much to ask.

But it could be worse. He could have lost Deb in every way, not just in bed; lost her as a friend and partner, just another tragic statistic in workplace romance. If their relationship had crashed and burned, all because he had to go and shit where he ate, Quinn would never have forgiven himself.

Thank God it hadn't come to that. Sure, there had been the obligatory brief awkward period post-breakup. Especially when the guys at the office started ribbing him about being the one who finally pushed Morgan over the line. But they were past all of that shit. Back on the street, kicking ass and taking names. 

So Quinn feels good as he pulls into his apartment complex, coming to a stop with an aggressive squeal. Brake pads need replacing. But now that he's just dropped Deb off at home, with her pulling carpool duty tomorrow, it's time to order two large pizzas and settle in for an Eighties action marathon. Maybe he'll call her during the love scene and give her some friendly shit. It beats feeling sorry for himself.

He's looking through the stack of takeout menus, trying to choose, when there's a rattle. His phone sits on the counter, slowly rotating as vibrations course through the plastic and metal shell.

He flips it open, but it's a strange number. With a shrug, he hits the green button. He can always channel Deb if it's a telemarketer. Girl's an inspiration. In more ways than one.

"Hello?"

_"Joseph?"_

"Yeah." Not too many people call him that. At least not sounding like this. Female, timid and cautious as hell. "Who's this?"

A humorless chuckle. _"I don't think you'd believe me."_

"Try me." Something about that voice is familiar. All his training is coming to the fore. Keep them on the line as long as possible; find out everything you can.

 _"I don't want to say."_ A deep and shaking breath, that goes out as slow as it came in. _"We may not have ever met. But I know you."_

"Really?" Quinn can barely see two feet in front of him. All his focus is on that voice as he grips the counter with his free hand, holding the phone to his ear. "Cause you sound like someone I'd like to know."

He's thinking of a woman who called herself Christine Hill. Who pretended to be someone she wasn't. All to fuck with the case against her father, the Trinity Killer. But who the hell would pretend to be someone the entire world knew was dead? A woman with no fortune to inherit, no great name for her heirs to claim?

A woman who'd been murdered in her own bathtub?

_"I know you're a good cop."_

Quinn almost laughs. He's surrounded by stolen wealth, from the flat screen TV paid for with pocket change to the antique calligraphy set he'd snagged off a drug dealer's shelf.

The voice softens further. _"And I know you're a good man."_

"Okay." Somewhere he finds the strength to speak. "This isn't funny. Not any more, and you need to --"

_"Please."_

Every instinct is at war within Quinn's mind. Chivalry colliding with common sense, as he tries in vain to resist.

 _"I don't know what's going on."_ Another deep breath, as the speaker gathers all her courage. _"But I am absolutely certain of one thing."_

He'd been ready to bring Dexter down. Would have welcomed any opportunity. But the further Quinn goes, the less sure he is that he even wants the truth. And with Deb clearly hiding shit from him -- as he once had from her -- he has to wonder if the sister finally found out just what the brother's been up to all these years. Or how close to the truth his own insane theories might have come about Dexter, murdering his own wife.

His tongue is dry as he licks his lips. "What's that, hun?"

Her words burn into his brain. Seared as if from a branding iron.

_"Dexter Morgan is a serial killer."_

Quinn stares at the phone. Hearing a click, and empty silence.

Quite honestly?

He's not sure where to begin.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battening down the hatches. Beating around the bush. Another truth revealed. And a meeting that cannot possibly be a coincidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know guns. I'm not that kind of geek.
> 
> * * *

"We need to talk."

"Uh oh." Lumen doesn't look worried in the least. She stands there grating cheese into a pan of bubbling sauce, wearing my shirt and a pair of loose white pajama pants. "Sounds big."

I don't mince words. "It is."

"Shit." She still doesn't look worried, but she's taking me seriously. "One sec."

I watch as she finishes adding cheese, whisking out the lumps. I wonder how much dedication it requires to prepare meals that a person themselves can no longer enjoy.

Only Lumen isn't exactly a person anymore. So Faith and the other Slayers seem to believe. But the more I hear, the more I read through the scattered and incomplete fragments of the historical record, the more I'm convinced Lumen is some kind of anomaly. I don't know what makes her different. I know she lives in mortal fear of harming me, or my children. And I know that at the first sign of trouble, my daughter the vampire Slayer won't hesitate -- or so she says -- to put a stake through my girlfriend's heart.

"There." Lumen sets the pan on the back burner and drops the lid into place. She rinses her hands and dries off, taking a seat across from me. "What is it?"

"Well --" I hadn't thought it through this far. "It's weird."

"Looks a little more than weird." Her smile is brief, cautious and troubled. She reaches out to take my hand, rubbing between my knuckles in an effort to sooth away tension.

"Come on." She smiles again, more hopeful. "After all we've been through?"

"I know." I think of everything that I thought six months ago was impossible. Ridiculous to even contemplate outside the realm of fiction.

"Gag me." Astor delivers this contribution as she pads across the kitchen floor in bare feet. She's wearing her own bathrobe, having decided she's too big for pajamas. It's a dark and vibrant red, monogrammed with an S.

"You don't have to watch." Lumen rolls her eyes and doesn't let go of my hand. "And save some of that for your brother."

"I just wanted a drink." Astor ignores the pot on the stove as she grabs a glass and fills it at the sink. I have to wonder what was wrong with the water in the bathroom. But I'm starting to understand why it's probably not a good idea to ask.

Lumen watches her guzzle the entire glass in one go. "Is Harrison all right?"

"He's fine." Astor seems ready to say more, then shakes her head. She puts the glass in the drainer, turning to leave.

I try not to sound rhetorical. "Are you going to wash that?"

"My lips are clean." Astor's sarcasm is half-hearted at best. But she doesn't protest as she removes the offending item. I watch her open the dishwasher, kneel down and find a good spot.

"Thank you," I say. Astor shrugs and makes good her escape before I can find something else for her to improve.

I wait for the door to close as Lumen watches me with renewed intensity. I can tell she's wondering just what category this particular hurricane of badness will end up falling into. And this one is a doozy.

We end up turning on the television. We sit together on the couch, keeping the volume low as we pretend to watch a Hallmark movie of the week, and I hold Lumen's hand and tell her about impossible fingerprints. About a dead woman who showed up at my sister's door, apparently expecting to be greeted with open arms.

"You need to call Faith." Lumen sounds appropriately serious. "And those Watcher guys? I'm sure there's a million possibilities. We need to start narrowing it down."

I have no idea what she's talking about. "Like what?"

Lumen frowns, then chuckles. "I keep forgetting you're not that kind of geek."

"I'll make the call." I'm already pulling out my phone when the big thought reoccurs. "What about Cody?"

"Shit." From the look on her face, this was even further from Lumen's mind. "Tomorrow?"

"Two PM," I confirm. "Bill and Maura can still make the trip in one go if they tag team. And from the sound of it, Cody's not going to let them pull over."

"And he doesn't know anything?" Lumen's tone holds an increasing amount of foreboding. "Not vampires, not you --"

I spread my hands, looking helpless. "He's innocent."

Lumen chews this over. Literally; I can see her lips and jaw working from side to side as she sits there thinking.

"Do you know what you're going to tell him?" She raises her gaze to me. Under that armor of resolve, the fear is back. And stronger than ever.

"Nothing," I say. "Not yet."

Lumen shakes her head. "How long?"

"I don't know." I show her my empty hands again. "We don't know enough."

She nods and claps her hands together, rubbing with great anticipation. "So we need to find out."

I can see the gleam in her eye. That same thirst, that spark of curiosity that drove her to hunt by my side. To take a human life.

I still don't know what's going on. But I'm no less worried.

I can't imagine what will happen next.

  


* * *

  


"You are terrible!" Deb's laugh echoes through the squad room as she leans back in her chair, phone to her ear. "Yeah, consider the source. Fuck you."

Whatever the other person just said, it's making her blush. Quinn's pain is still present, even a hint of jealousy. But the positive energy Deb's putting out can't be ignored or denied. If she's happy, he's happy.

"No, that is not why I called." Deb scoots her chair back and stands. Quinn pretends not to notice as she glances over in his direction. "Hold on a sec."

Whatever's going on, it's bigger than a virtual booty call. Deb's known for having driven a number of people from the room with her supposedly private conversations, but all of those were with dudes. Apparently her discussions with her fellow women aren't for public consumption. They get the intros, maybe the less mushy outros. Otherwise, Morgan's keeping this relationship all to herself.

"I'm glad." Vince actually sounds like he's serious. "Less temptation for me. Better odds they stay together, long-term --"

"You're still hanging around?" Quinn shoots him a curious look. "Don't you have work to do?"

"I, ah -- yes. You're right." Vince removes his glasses and sets to furious polishing. "Tell Morgan I've got that other thing. When she's got a minute."

"What other thing?" Quinn demands. But Vince is already off and running, back to the safety of his lab. Typical geek.

He goes back to filling out forms, but his heart's not in it. Less than usual, as Quinn's brain refuses to remove last night's phone call from the endless loop inside his head. Every time he thinks he's put it to one side, that voice is back. High and breathy; the kind that could ooze sex appeal or helplessness at the drop of a hat. And all too familiar.

A voice from beyond the grave.

He's heard celebrity impersonations. Really good ones, on Howard Stern. That call didn't even last one minute. And yet Quinn would swear on a stack of Bibles that he heard a dead woman plead for his help.

It's enough to make him yearn for the simple straightforwardness of a Trinity Killer, or an Ice Truck Killer. He'd joined the squad too late for that one, but he'd heard plenty of stories. Deb didn't like to talk about it. Go figure.

"Fuck it," Quinn mutters. He pulls out his phone and brings up the call log. He doesn't have to scroll down; last night's unknown number is right at the top.

"Add to contacts..." He hesitates, balking at the blank field labeled NAME. Then he sees Deb through the glass, walking through the lobby, headed for the inner doors.

He pokes the question mark. Hits SAVE, and backs out all the way before shoving the phone in his pocket. He's just pulling a fresh sheet from his inbox when Deb plops down at her desk.

"So?" Quinn goes for the safety of platitudes. "How's your girlfriend?"

"Still none of your business." Deb sighs, pressing fists against tight shut eyelids. "Sorry."

"Nah, it's fair." Quinn shrugs. "I am the evil ex."

"You're not evil, dumbass." Deb sounds more vehement than expected. "Believe me. I'd know."

"I just --" Quinn wrestles down the urge to sound defensive. "I'm just happy you are. You know -- happy."

"Douche." But Deb says it like an endearment.

"Oh -- Masuka said he had something for you." Quinn looks over. "Maybe on that motel shooting?"

Deb looks slightly pale as she rises again from her chair. "I'll let you know."

Somehow, Quinn doubts it. The longer this goes on, the more his partner clams up.

"What the fuck, Morgan?" He'd been meaning to stay silent, but once the floodgates are open he can't shut up. "Not this shit again?"

Deb looks at the ceiling, praying for patience. "Quinn --"

"No," he snaps. "You're not gonna cut me out. No more. I got freaky shit happening to me --"

Deb's startled gaze falls to him, with more worry than he would have expected. Maybe she does still care.

"-- and you clamming up is not fucking helping." Quinn slaps his open hand on his desk, hard enough to make the books bounce. "If you're not gonna be straight with me? I don't trust you to get my back."

Deb swallows and bows her head. She stares at her hands on her desk, until Quinn thinks she'll never speak again.

"Look." Deb dredges up the word with tremendous effort. "My girlfriend -- she handles stuff people like us can't. Or that we don't want to. Or we're told not to."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Quinn looks at Deb like she's a headless chicken. "Some kind of secret agent?"

"Something like that."

He swallows as Deb looks over at him, more concerned than he's ever seen her.

"Stay out of it, Quinn." Her eyes plead with him to accede. "Before you get hurt."

Even after she leaves, he can't shake that look. Quinn's starting to feel like he's riding one of those old wooden roller coasters, held together with little more than spit and baling wire. A rattling deathtrap that threatens any moment to come apart at the seams.

The one good thing about all this shit is the fact that Lieutenant LaGuerta is now the last thing he's worried about. And when it comes to all the unknown unknowns lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness, Joey Quinn is only sure about one thing.

It's going to get worse.

  


* * *

  


When Rita was married to her first husband, they could buy a large ham and cheese pizza for two dollars and fifty-nine cents. By the time she was pregnant with Astor, the price of lettuce was through the roof thanks to droughts and a worker's strike in California. It wasn't until Dexter that she finally felt free to not worry about where every penny came from.

In the wake of his arrest, the house was the first thing she'd lost. As far as material possessions, that is. And not that she could have continued to live there. What she'd seen in that bathroom had scarred not just her face, but every last inch of her soul. The mask of the monster she had married had been brutally stripped away, if only for a moment. Along with her final remaining shreds of innocence. Her trust in anyone but her children; the hope that her life could be anything but an unending nightmare.

The payphone last night cost fifty cents of the money she stole from the fountain. That leaves three twenty-five in quarters, tucked away in the inside pocket of her dress. Hardly enough for a pistol. No matter how well she might clean up, and even if someone were willing to take her nonexistent money, there's still the three day wait. No federally licensed seller would dare to violate that. Not if they wanted to keep their license.

That leaves the one thing she swore she would never again resort to. Selling her body would certainly be distasteful, but it's nothing compared to this humiliation. Because helpless is the one thing Rita swore she would never be, not ever again. To use that against another person, to take advantage of their own goodness, makes her feel like she's being punched in the gut.

It's not like she has any more money. Not even her ATM card. And this isn't a question of buying something under the table. A person would have to be dumb and generous enough to simply hand over a gun, for free, to a complete and total stranger. The odds are better of being struck by lightning mid-air while falling to her death. That leaves the pure sympathy ploy.

Unfortunately, it appears that chivalry is dead and gun stores live in mortal terror of Uncle Sam. After four merchants and no luck, she's ready to steal one in pure desperation. That's when she turns and walks out the door, taking her frustrations well away from that establishment. When her vision clears she's standing in front of a brick wall, wanting nothing more than to bring it down with her bare hands.

"Excuse me."

She whirls at the sound of a strange voice. But the man isn't even looking at her, merely trying to squeeze his bulk past her in the narrow alleyway. He's a giant of a man, nearly four inches taller than Angel Batista and slightly more broad, squeezed into a slightly shabby suit. Only his bulging waistline, the hint of grey in his neatly trimmed mustache, indicate a history of even greater potency.

"I'm sorry," she manages.

"Think nothing of it." The man peers at her more closely. "You okay?"

She can't bring herself to even smile. If she opens her mouth --

"Hey -- hey." A hand descends upon her shoulder, encompassing the entire joint and then some. It's a careful touch, ready to pull away at a moment's notice. "You see that sign up there?"

Rita sniffles and swallows, wiping her vision clear. She can't quite make out the fine print.

"Jones," she says. "It says Jones."

"That's me." The man produces a wallet from his inside breast pocket, flipping it open to reveal a driver's license and a concealed weapons permit.

"That's my place." He holds up a key on a ring filled to bursting. "If you want to come in and sit down, I've got plenty of bad coffee. And a chair with only half the springs missing."

"You're very generous." Rita manages a ghost of a smile. "But I don't think --"

"It's a public business." Jones flips his license over. On the reverse is another that designates the bearer a licensed Class C Private Investigator.

She peers up at his face, trying to read him. "What does the C stand for?"

"Well, I'd say it stands for cookie." The man pats his belly with his other hand. "But that's showing my age."

Rita tries not to smile. It comes out lopsided.

"My nephew would probably say it stands for crackhead." The man continues to hold out his wallet, patiently awaiting her verdict.

Rita peers at the expiration date. "Your time's almost up."

Jones gives her an expectant look, extending one massive hand. "Same old story."

  


* * *

  


I've sent Astor to the convenience store for emergency bathroom supplies. With Cody arriving tomorrow, it's a convenient excuse. That gives us at least an hour to look over the evidence Deb left behind. I spell out the finer points as we peruse my copy of the ballistics and fingerprint reports. With every new piece of evidence that this could not be Darla, could not possibly even be a vampire, Lumen looks more and more confounded.

"What if it's her?" She says this very slowly, with great reluctance. "What if it's --"

"It's not." I won't hear it. Not from anyone. "It can't be."

"Dexter --" Lumen finds my hand, holding it between both of her own. She stares at me over the offending report.

"You need to at least consider the possibility." Her voice is gentle. "If you don't --"

"I don't need to." I don't want to. I push away from the table and stand up.

Lumen mirrors my own movements, almost faster than my eye can follow. Her hand on my wrist is just this side of painful.

"You have to." She squeezes once, as she stares me down. "For your own sake."

I pull free and turn on my heel, stalking away like an emasculated panther. Of all the things to make me angry, it's knowing that I couldn't have moved if she hadn't let go. Silly how Astor's superior strength fills me with pride and joy. Not silly. I'm being silly.

"I'm sorry." Lumen's touch is gentle on my shoulder, awaiting my consent. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

I nod. I reach up and cover her smaller hand in mine, adding my own slight pressure.

"If it is Rita?"

I feel a tendril of dread forming inside me. Beginning to divide, sending forth their legion.

"I can't imagine what she's going through."

  


* * *

  


"Do you believe in coincidence?"

They're sitting on the tiny balcony of the adjoining apartment. It's just big enough for two lawn chairs and a rusty barbecue grill. The staircase is on her side, easily available at any moment to make good her escape. Less confining than being indoors, and there's a small tree that grows right past the deck, full of nesting birds. It might be the most relaxed she's been in months.

Rita thinks she looks nervous. The voice she's hearing is the same one that invited her in, but the words are starting to verge on airport evangelism.

"I'm not sure." She remains uncommitted, in the hopes he'll take over. "I can see it both ways."

"Safe answer." Jones sips his coffee and makes a horrible sound. "I really need to clean that thing."

Rita stares down at her own mug. Despite watching him prepare it every step of the way, tap water and all, she remains reluctant to actually take a drink.

"See -- I don't. And by that I mean, I don't necessarily think everything is preordained." Jones leans back with a sigh, carefully redistributing his bulk among the various stress points of an already overloaded chair. "Or that every chance occurrence has meaning to anyone in particular. But in this case -- and I don't mean to alarm you --"

"That's a pretty alarming statement." Rita laughs, to show she's kidding. Also serious.

"I'd say the odds are as close to zero as I can imagine." Jones looks over at her again. "On this being coincidence."

"What are you talking about?" Rita's positive she's going to regret that. His presentation is the perfect blend of personal and professional. And yet she can't help but be disturbed by the direction this discussion is taking.

"I know I can be an intimidating fellow." Jones throws back the rest of his cup in a single swallow. His neck expands like a toad's, his face distorting in a grimace of resignation.

"But I was just gonna offer you a cup of coffee," Jones continues. "Maybe let you make a phone call. Except I thought I recognized you."

Rita opens her mouth. "I don't think --"

"And when I realized that I did? That I wasn't going crazy? That's when I knew." Jones gives her a sidelong glance, raising his index finger to his temple, tapping it twice. "There was no way this could be a coincidence."

Rita remains silent.

"See -- I don't think any of us actually knows what's going on." Jones shakes his head. "Not you, not me -- name Owen mean anything to you?"

"Pardon?" Rita blurts. Her sense of feeling increasingly rattled keeps being thrown off-kilter. "I mean -- no?"

"Is that a question?"

"I --" She swallows her retort. The man still sounds all too kindly, but it doesn't come close to placating her increasingly vague concerns.

"No." She shakes her head. "I mean -- I don't know anyone by that name."

"Right." Jones is watching her closely. "And what about Dexter Morgan?"

Rita swallows. Feeling the walls begin to close in.

"Don't answer that." The man's gruff tone is more gentle than ever. "You don't have to."

She stares at the cup of coffee in her hands. A visible lipid layer floats upon the surface, reflecting the midday sun.

"So I'm going to do you one real favor." Jones sounds like a lifelong bachelor shanghaied for his final party. "Because something tells me if I don't, I'm going to be waking up every night for the rest of my life."

"Assuming that's true?" Rita downs her coffee in one gulp with a shiver. It's bad, but nothing like she'd been psyching herself up for. "I'd be very grateful."

"Short of killing." Jones bends his head to the left, with a crack that causes her to wince. "Beating up -- in short, anything I could lose my license for? You're on your own."

Rita contemplates her empty cup. "I need a gun."

Jones lets out a raspy chuckle. "You're not alone."

Rita tries to unpack this. "Does that mean you don't have one?" 

"Telling people how many guns you have is a recipe for trouble." Jones sounds as though he speaks from experience. "Especially pretty blondes."

Rita laughs despite herself.

"But, you're talking to one of those nuts who thinks pretty much everybody needs one. Whether they know it or not." Jones looks back to her. "And?"

That was easy enough. Now for the hard part.

"I don't have any money." She fights down the note of weakness in her voice. It's pitiful how easily it comes back. But if this man is on the level, she wouldn't be able to live with the knowledge that she'd consciously tried to manipulate him. "And I can't afford to wait."

"I see." Jones shakes his head, peering up at the clouds. Then he leans forward, shoving himself upright with a grunt of effort.

Rita remains perfectly still as he opens the sliding door and enters the apartment. Until her fingers start drumming a rapid staccato on her knees, unable to remain at rest.

"Coming?"

She's this close to saying no. Walking away down those rickety stairs to try her dwindling luck elsewhere.

Jones clears his throat. "I'm sure you'll agree it would be unwise --"

"I'm coming." She rises to her feet before she can change her mind, follows him inside and shuts the door.

"Have a seat." Jones indicates a red leather couch that's seen better days, its brass studs green with age. Rita gingerly seats herself on the cushion with the least cracks in it.

"I know who you are." Jones is bending over a desk, rummaging through the drawers. "And I think most people would have a bit of a problem with that."

She can't believe it's that simple. "And you don't?"

"What I am, is a realist." Jones removes a small pistol from one of the drawers. He ejects the clip and slides the assembly open, peering down into the chamber. "Don't suppose you can show me a Florida driver's license?"

Her smile feels dry as a desert. "I wish." 

"As I'm sure you're aware --" Jones takes on a didactic air as he places the gun on the coffee table. It's an older one, octagonal, solid hand-carved oak and low to the ground. "Florida law allows a person to buy, sell, gift or otherwise transfer a firearm to another party, unless one is aware that the reciever is not lawfully able to possess one. Federal law -- which you may recall, often takes precedence -- prohibits such transfer if the two parties do not reside in the same state."

Rita tries not to sound like a know-it-all teen. "I took a class."

"Oh?" Jones perks up. "What kind?"

"Basic safety and handling. Through the police." She'd signed up for the course a mere week after Dexter had been arrested. A few others had dropped out after she started showing up. Angel gave the rest a severe tongue-lashing and she'd buckled down twice as hard, finishing with flying colors.

"And..." She can speak of this. "A friend. She --"

Maybe not.

"Take your time." Jones doesn't move, carefully observing her. But Rita doesn't need his sympathy.

"She was a police officer." Rita swallows. "A detective."

It still hurts to recall that earliest memory. Paul had left her with split lips and a crack in what the doctor later said was her humerus. It wasn't very, but the doctor said he'd heard that one and didn't find it funny. And when she got back from the ER, Paul didn't take her in his arms and swear that he would never hurt her again. The kids were screaming, and Astor must have called the police, because sometime later Paul was being led away in cuffs. A light was shining in her eyes. And a gentle voice was asking if she was all right.

"She was a very good friend." 

She could never forgive Debra. Not for introducing her to Dexter, and everything that followed. But her love would never die. Not for the woman who had first given Rita the strength to leave her abuser.

"We spent a lot of time at the range together. She --" Rita has to stop for a moment. "She let me use hers. She said it would help to... familiarize myself with more than one model."

"Words of wisdom." Jones nods at the gun on the table. "Ever handle one of these?"

Rita doesn't look down. "Sig Sauer P two-thirty-eight."

"So you can read." Jones sits on the edge of the big chair, leaning foward with his hands on his knees. "Can you field strip?"

She pauses mid-reach. "I'll assume you want it put back together?"

"The less you assume?" Jones has the air of waiting patiently for someone else. "The longer you'll live."

"How far down?" Rita holds the gun up between them, her finger well clear of the trigger. "I don't see a screwdriver."

Jones frowns. "Why's that important?"

"Because if you want it completely disassembled I need a one-sixteenth inch punch, an angled pick, and a screwdriver." Rita tries not to sound impatient. "I wouldn't want to damage the frame trying to remove the pin."

Jones stares at her with narrow eyes, rolling his mustache back and forth. Then he lets out a brief snort.

"Just show me you can put your hands where your mouth is." Jones nods again at the weapon in her hands. "Do that to my satisfaction, and you can walk out of here with that in your pocket."

"It's a bit small." Rita grimaces as she fishes the tiny square of fabric out of the hidden seam, displaying it to him with a a rueful expression.

"Well -- in for a penny." Jones shakes his head. "You look like about a four. In the ballpark?"

Rita can't help a chuckle as she begins manual disassembly. She could be quicker about it, but she refuses to screw this up. "Don't tell me you have a dress in the closet?"

Jones smiles, closely watching the movement of her hands. "Perish the thought."

  


* * *

  


Quinn's day has not been improving. It hasn't really gotten worse, but the shift is far from over. Mostly he's been on pins and needles waiting for that uncanny impersonator to take another crack at him. No matter what cock and bull story Deb can throw around about her Jane Bond girlfriend, the dead do not come back to life. Not now, not ever. Only in the vast wasteland of Hollywood is that kind of nonsense taken seriously.

At least he hopes not. Between Deb and Masuka both giving him the runaround, he's ready to believe anything if it leads to a quick resolution. With half the cases the department brings thrown out due to bullshit technicalities, Quinn is on the side of whatever puts black on the board and green in his pocket. As long as it passes muster with Maria LaGuerta, it's good enough for him.

He's just finishing up his fourth backlogged report of the day when Vince pokes his head around the corner. Masuka's rounded face is flushed like he's been running. Or is still trying to hide something.

"Morgan back yet?" Vince sounds hopeful while remaining wary.

"Haven't seen her." Quinn drops his completed form in the basket. "What's up?"

"Nothing." The reply comes more than too quickly. Masuka's already retreating, disappearing from sight.

"Vince!"

The bald head slowly pokes out again. Any other time, Quinn would be making a dick joke. 

"C'mere." Quinn waves his hand, beckoning Vince over to his desk. "I won't bite."

Masuka shuffles up, ready to bolt. He's wearing the same look he gets whenever he has to cover for Dexter in the spatter room. Only this time, it's more like he's climbing the gallows.

"Jesus Christ, will you get a grip?" Quinn can't think of any way to ease the guy's tension. Not when he's actually trying to pump him for information. What's sad is how even in this context the words _grip_ and _pump_ just aren't as funny as they should be. Vince stands there staring back at him, a rabbit in a trap.

Quinn sighs. "Look --"

"Bearded Spock!"

"What the fuck?" Quinn stares at his co-worker, who looks like he wants to shove his fist down his own throat to prevent further self-incrimination.

"It's, ah...a style." Vince looks down at his groin, then back up at Quinn with an air of pleading hope. "A style for...pubic hair. Like a Fu Manchu, only --" He breaks off with a sigh, shaking his head. "Never mind."

"Dude? You're freakin' me out." Quinn sends a furtive glance around the room. One other detective is off in the corner, paying them little to no attention. He rises to his feet, towering over the bespectacled lab geek.

"I just want to know." Quinn tries to sound like he's offering a way out. "Does this have anything to do with Deb?"

"I..." Vince clears his throat. "Promised I wouldn't talk about that."

Quinn suppresses a growl. "I'm not talkin' about her sex life."

"I promised I wouldn't think about that." Vince blinks, looking confused. "Wait. You're not?"

"No." Quinn leans in, practically nose to nose. "And neither are you."

Vince's eyes widen; a pair of soft-boiled eggs inside a bigger one. "Fuck."

"Dude." Quinn summons every scrap of intimidation, every ounce of command at his disposal. "Spill."

Vince opens his mouth. His jaw works in silence, his larynx going into spasms as he slowly backs away from Quinn, finally regaining the power of speech.

"I gotta go."

"Vince --" Quinn slams a fist down on the desk as the geek turns and flees. He is not going to go running after that little shit in front of God and everyone. Not when he'll more than likely end up doing something he'll regret. Somewhere down the line, anyway.

He's fucked. With no Stan Liddy to do the dirty work, until Morgan decides to include him in their little treehouse game, Joey Quinn might as well get used to being odd man out. Too hip for the in crowd, too straight for the squares.

He sighs as he sits back down, reaching for the next sheet in the dwindling stack of his inbox. He's in the middle of deciphering some spastic's handwriting when a pleasant rumble echoes through his thigh, up into his crotch.

"Shit." Quinn's mutter is a quiet one as he digs the phone from his pocket. Probably Deb. If he's lucky, with evidence she's willing to share.

But it's an unknown number. He stares at it, remembering how he just gave the other one a label. Not like it comes as any great surprise that a crank would try switching it up.

He clears his throat. Puts on his best professional air, as he hits TALK.

"Hello." A statement, not a question. "This is Quinn."

_"Hello?"_

Male. There goes his first assumption.

"Yeah?" Quinn doesn't try to hide his growing impatience. "Who's this?"

 _"I'm sorry -- I was referred to you by a private investigator?"_ The voice on the other end has that flat Midwestern feel to it. The sound of the evening news, an accent that sounds like no accent. _"Jones? I didn't get his last name. Or I guess his first --"_

"And what's your name, sir?" Quinn's back to sounding professional. A little less friendly, slightly more aloof as he tries to suss things out.

_"Sorry -- Owen Hanson?"_

It may be a question. But it doesn't sound like a lie.

"Well then, Mister Hanson." Quinn allows himself a tiny chuckle. "What can I do for you?"

The briefest pause. _"I'm hoping you can help me find someone."_

"Oh yeah?" This is getting better by the minute. Anything to take his mind off the increasingly incomprehensible issues that plague his soul. "You got a name?"

The pause is slightly longer this time.

"Hey." Quinn goes for gentle. He has to remind himself that from the sound of it, he's probably talking to a nice guy. Probably never even been punched in the face. "I might be able to help you. But I'm gonna need a name."

A deep breath. Quinn can barely hear it.

_"Lumen Ann Pierce."_

Quinn blinks. Staring into space, for what feels like forever.

_"Hello?"_

The countless whirring mechanisms of Quinn's mind come to a stop. Sliding slowly into place, as a single word tumbles out of his mouth.

"Okay."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More backstory on a certain familiar stranger. Two great cops who work great together. Reunited with family, making new friends. Another first time face to face meeting. And possibly the worst idea yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost all the pieces are in place. All it takes is enough pressure.
> 
> * * *

Rita knows this is only the beginning. Wherever the road that leads back to her children may take her along the way, nothing worthwhile is ever quick and easy. Usually not even one of those. But right now the only thing that matters is that she's finally starting to feel clean, if only in a physical sense.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep on the couch, but it spoke to how quickly the private investigator had waltzed right past her defenses. She'd woken after dark, in an unfamiliar environment, and the only thing keeping her from instant panic was the nightlight on the opposite wall near the baseboard. The faint blue glow was just enough to calm her nerves before remembering where she was. Jones had lain a quilt over her at some point, scratchy but clean-smelling.

It had been enough to lull her back to sleep until morning. Jones said he had a client meeting at ten. Rita tried to hurry through her shower, but even with the pressure minimal, the temperature tepid, she ended up standing there in a state of near ecstasy with her eyes shut tight, soaking it up until the last drop of hot water swirled down the drain.

The gun was still there when she got out. Right where she'd left it, on top of the toilet tank. Jones had insisted that it was hers now, and wouldn't Rita feel safer just knowing it was within arm's reach? She honestly hadn't even thought about it when he offered the use of the shower. Another example of how frighteningly easy it would be to actually put her trust in another human being.

And of course, that turned out to be precisely the problem. That the man she thought she loved, the husband and father she would have died to defend, didn't even qualify for the label. He'd said it himself at the trial.

  


* * *

  


_I wasn't even human._ Dexter sits in the dock, shackled to within an inch of his life. His characteristic stubble is more unkempt than ever, his empty eyes staring at nothing. _When we first met._

It's like he's alone in the courtroom. Rita's been watching for hours, reeling from the litany of bloody lies. Every nighttime boat outing; every work-related trip. Whatever stories of Dexter's that turned out to be real had been little more than a convenient cover for his crimes. Murder while multitasking.

She couldn't attend the trial in person. Couldn't find the courage to face him, bound and gagged in a roomful of cops. But mostly she couldn't face the others. All his friends at the station, the families of victims whose evidence he'd tampered with, were simply too much to bear. And so she watched the DVD's; occasionally pausing, sometimes puking.

This was the conclusion to Dexter's testimony. It had lasted four days, and the papers were in even more of an uproar before it was through. LaGuerta had tried to ride out the storm, but the fallout was too great. In the wake of so many cases being reopened, Angel Batista was the one who was considered cleanest and most qualified to be promoted in her place. And apart from Deb, he'd been the only cop on the force who hadn't pitied Rita or outright rejected her after the arrest. 

_I never expected that to change._ Dexter's voice is soft, full of hope and wonder. And at the same time grieving. As if he's been hit with disaster so devastating he can't even begin to describe it. _She reached out and found something... I didn't even know was there._

She'd thought she was all cried out. But as tears blur Rita's vision, she knows she'll never be done.

 _She never hurt anybody._ Dexter seems to be in awe over this basic truth. _She was..._

Rita stares at the screen. Her slim forearms are tense and trembling as she bends the remote control with all her strength; hearing the plastic begin to crack and splinter.

_Innocent._

  


* * *

  


Those days were gone. Dexter had seen to that. And the greatest irony? He really had only been trying to protect her. If he had been just a few minutes later; if a desperate Arthur Mitchell hadn't slipped on a wet and soapy floor at the most crucial of moments --

But isn't that precisely what's happening? That for some reason, she now finds herself in a world where that's precisely what happened? It makes the insanity of Dexter seem like a harmless and childish prank. And yet every piece of evidence Rita can lay hands to, every last scrap of information, only serves as further support for this outlandish theory.

A universe where everything is the same. Until her death. And then, everything changes.

She still doesn't know where to begin if this science fiction fantasy turns out to be real. But she has a gun. With one spare clip, and two boxes of ammo. And she managed to eat a baloney sandwich with a token amount of lettuce. There's another one in a baggie inside the black vinyl pack at her waist. Minus the lettuce, for longer shelf life.

Her only complaint is the clothes. It's nothing to do with their cleanliness, and everything to do with fashion or lack thereof. Jones's walk-in closet had a lot of things, but there was a notable lack of anything girly. They'd engaged a bit of good-natured banter, and between the two of them had finally picked out a pair of loose-fitting khakis, a T-shirt and flannel longsleeve. The weather isn't too bad, so she's far from roasting to death. But with her long hair up in a ponytail, tucked under a baseball cap that reads BEAVER RESEARCH COMPANY, Rita's feeling the polar opposite of inconspicuous.

  


* * *

  


"Trust me, honey. You're perfect white trash." Jones gives her an enthusiastic pair of upturned thumbs. "I'd have dated you in college."

She's not quite offended, but it still takes too much effort for more than the tiniest of smiles. "That sounds like a rousing endorsement."

"Hell, I probably did." Jones holds the door for her as they exit his apartment, takes her elbow to guide her down the steps. He seems completely at ease as they walk to his car. But all the while Rita sees him glancing casually in every direction, alert for potential dangers. Even in her ridiculous tomboy outfit, she feels like a princess.

"I can drop you anywhere in the metropolitan area." Jones eases behind the wheel, adjusting his gut accordingly. "What's your pleasure?"

"3319 Meadow Lane." It comes out before any conscious thought. Rita shakes her head, already trying to think of ways to backtrack.

"Something tells me the current occupant might be a little surprised to see you." Jones pauses with his hand on the ignition key, giving her the sidelong look of a potentially disappointed parent. "I don't want to regret that gift."

"You won't regret helping me." Rita leaves it at that.

Jones leaves the key in place, turning his massive upper body to face her. "What's your plan?"

Rita quells her immediate retort. He'd already put down all the conditions and caveats on his so-called gift before handing it over. It seems a bit much to tack on additional clauses and codicils after the deal has supposedly been concluded.

"I'm only asking because there's kids in the mix." Jones is giving her the classic Spock eyebrow; one up, the other slightly down. It's a mix of surprise and mild disapproval that does a wonderful job of making Rita feel like she's trying to get away with something.

"I know." Rita turns and stares out the window, her clenched fist pressed against her mouth until the knuckles turn white.

"Boy and a girl, if I'm not mistaken." Jones still has the casual friendly tone of some stranger she met in a checkout line, striking up a conversation about their respective families. "Sounds like he's just starting to talk."

Rita doesn't dare speak. Or turn around, or breathe. Something has happened to Cody. In this world --

"I just --" She waits until she can turn and face him. Jones looks like a mustachioed Buddha, waiting patiently after the last grain of sand has long since fallen through the hourglass.

"I need information." Her hands are clasped over the pack at her waist, feeling the ugly, functional shape of the weapon inside. "Then I can have a plan."

"True." Jones sighs and takes hold of the key, then stops.

"Almost forgot." He pulls a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket.

"You might be interested to know that the neighbors on both sides moved out over the last year. Got a new family in 2321, three kids of their own. But 2317 --" Jones hands her the paper with a nod. It feels heavy. "Still vacant. And not scheduled for a showing any time soon."

So Elliot was gone, too.

Rita opens the paper. Something slides out, falling into her lap.

A key.

  


* * *

  


Jones drops her off in the driveway, pulled up far enough to avoid being seen from the street. She watches him nod at her through the windshield. Then he backs out, shifts into gear and drives away without a backward glance.

Rita doesn't wait to be spotted, trotting quickly up the steps and opening the screen door. Her heart pounds a little harder as she puts her key to the lock. But it slides right in, turning without hesitation.

She only visited this neighbor one time, but the basic layout of the house looks the same. It seems bigger with no furniture. The water is still on, which comes as a real relief. No guerilla camping for this city girl.

Her tour of the entire place takes less than ten minutes from bottom to top and back again. She makes sure all the blinds are shut, the curtains tightly drawn; takes careful note of all the exits, prioritizing in case of emergency. She finds two different spots to serve as hiding places for her gun, if for some reason she doesn't have it on her. And there's a few scattered items left by the previous owners or workmen in the interval. The most useful is probably the pipe wrench under the sink, handy as a tool or weapon.

The attic is stuffy, but it offers the best vantage point from which to observe, as well as the lowest odds of being seen in return. Rita puts her sandwich in the refrigerator and turns up the cold -- not too much, as a higher electric bill might catch someone's eye. Then she ascends the stairs to the attic and crawls over to the window, laying down a couple of bedsheets she found in the hall closet.

The house next door is quiet. Rita's not sure how much time goes by. But her boobs are beginning to hurt from lying prone on the floor like a sniper, and she's dying for a pee break. If it weren't for the van just now pulling into the driveway, she'd already have left her post.

Then the front door opens.

A cold hand grips her innards. The monster himself, come to greet unsuspecting visitors. And the sight of her sweet and perfect baby boy in the arms of his sweet-seeming father makes Rita's blood scream at her to run down those stairs, out the door and straight up to that mockery of a man and empty a clip into his chest. With one between the eyes, for good measure.

But there's someone else as well. And for all the rage in her heart, there is a sudden surge of joy.

"Astor..." she breathes. Her daughter is taller than she remembers, just beginning to fill out. And that face she knows so well, on which Rita can't even remember the last time she saw a smile, is lit up like the morning sun. Her long legs carry her forward at breakneck speed, right past Dexter. And into the arms of --

Rita stares at the tableau of domestic bliss. Paul's parents are climbing out of the SUV, moving slow and somewhat stiff. But they look just as happy as Cody as the young boy latches onto his big sister. Astor sweeps him up into her embrace, then twirls like a dancer, sending his legs straight out behind him. Cody's shrieks of laughter fill the yard as she spins, the sound of sheer and unadulterated delight.

She can't look away.

But somehow?

It's even worse than she thought.

  


* * *

  


"Nothing?" Quinn's not expecting anything else. He's just trying to make conversation. They're outside a gun store, waiting for the owner to get back from lunch. It's where Quinn wishes he was right now. Scarfing down a chili dog with all the works, sitting on a rock looking out over the bay. Not a care in the world.

"Nothing." At least Deb sounds like she's being honest. It keeps him from feeling too fucked over.

He tries to remember the last casual conversation they had. It's hard to recall one that ended on a positive note. The usual tactics for extracting information either don't apply or would backfire.

"Fuck my single life." Quinn shakes his head. "And that's not fishing for pity sex."

Deb rolls her eyes. "You only did that when we were going out."

"Ah hah." Quinn can't help it. "So you admit we were going out."

"For all of thirty seconds." Deb smirks, her eyes remaining focused on the front door to the store. "And maybe I was a bit of a douche, too. But --"

"She admits that too!" Quinn cranes his head out the window, peering up at the sky. "You hear that?"

"But you had your shot." Deb doesn't even sound mean. Just a little irritated. "I'm really trying to make this work. And it's already hard enough without --"

"Say no more." Quinn raises his hands to signal surrender. "Just trying to show a little support."

"You can show it by buying my girlfriend a lap dance." Deb looks slightly mortified even as she's saying it. "Cause she may be into it? But I am not going there."

Quinn laughs out loud. It's the most Deb's ever opened up about her new partner.

"So what about your brother?" It's a risk, but it's also a genuine question. "He seeing anyone?"

"Christ." Deb's expression flickers with something like irritation.

"I'm just askin'." Quinn runs the dates in his head. "I mean, it's been a year now. Little more?"

"Yeah." Deb nods, with some reluctance. "Yeah -- actually."

Quinn tries to keep it cool, but he can't help a hint of exultation that he's finally getting somewhere. "You don't like her?"

"It's --" The look on Deb's face runs through a gamut of emotions, almost too quick for him to follow. "Complicated."

"Really." A light teasing note enters Quinn's voice. "Sounds like you're the one who's seein' her."

"Fuck no." Deb's reply is immediate, a little too impassioned. She stares at the door to the gun store, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. 

"So what?" He throws out a possible line. "She a gold digger? Tryin' to cash in on that sweet cop salary?"

"No." Deb shakes her head, sounding completely thwarted. "It's a fucking match made in heaven."

Quinn doesn't know what to make of that. Even after he thinks it over, long enough to wonder if he'll need to hit the head before this mook shows up.

"Well -- good for him." Quinn rolls the dice, decides on a still greater risk. "After what he went through?"

It's nothing visible, but he can feel Deb tense up. 

"Yeah." Quinn nods. "I'm just sayin'. If anyone deserves to be happy -- it's your brother."

"Yeah." The light snort from Deb belies the storm that rages deep within. Her eyes stare at nothing, unable to look away. "Deserve."

Quinn's wondering what he can say to make her feel better. Then he spies a tall bearded man in a trucker cap coming up the sidewalk, heading for the store with a purposeful gait.

"You want to get this one?" Deb sounds hopeful.

"Next one." Quinn nods. "Go for it."

"Douche," Deb mutters.

"What can I say?" Quinn flashes that grin that he's sure still makes her mushy inside. "I like watchin' you work."

  


* * *

  


"I can see why you were having problems."

"But I did it just like you said." Astor's frustration is plain. Lumen stands nearby, awaiting our conclusion.

"But teaching someone isn't the same." I cast my thoughts back to Harry's lectures. "Not everyone learns the same way. Or as easily in a particular way as you might."

I can already see the argument forming in her face.

"And you may have the advantage over me in raw power." I send a lightning jab at her armpit, digging in with a good old-fashioned tickle. Astor shrieks and convulses, batting my forearm away. I'm sure that will bruise.

"But you're not going all out against Lumen," I continue. "Even though she's almost as strong."

Astor's growl of frustration is gratifyingly short-lived. I may be getting through to her.

"And technique matters," I point out. "Remember?"

"I remember." Astor's tone is sour, begrudging me the slightest merit to my arguments.

"And if it wasn't for that technique, you wouldn't have been able to throw that lizard guy around the room like he owed you money." I cock one eyebrow, hoping to kindle a spark of pride.

"Yeah." Her smile is still reluctant. "That was pretty cool."

"So are you going to have a problem if I train both of you?" I look back and forth between them. "Together?"

"As long as you don't start getting schmoopy with her." Astor sounds serious despite her smirk. "I'm already traumatized enough."

Lumen cocks her head, as if listening. "Someone's here."

Astor looks puzzled, then turns with a gasp. "Cody!" 

"All right, then." I kneel in front of the couch and hold out my arms. "Ready to see your big brother again?"

"Goatie!" Harrison grins, reaching back for me. 

I gather him up and gaze around at my family. Preparing to receive one of our own should be a joyous occasion. Right now I'm wondering if we left anything incriminating out in plain sight. 

"I'll be busy in the kitchen." Lumen rolls her eyes and walks away. Astor watches her with a frown, then turns to look at me. Waiting for my cue.

I nod at the doorknob.

"Can you get that for me?"

  


* * *

  


Cody still can't believe it. But it turns out that sometimes, betting big pays off. Both grandparents actually agreeing to his proposal had been a miracle in and of itself. But when he'd brought it up to Dexter, totally expecting to be shot down in flames, he hadn't met with the slightest sign of resistance.

He'd still been nervous on the ride down from Orlando. It was still possible everything would be snatched away at the last minute. And he couldn't shake the memory of standing in the bathroom with his sister, staring at the freshly scrubbed tile. He was scared he wouldn't be able to handle living in the old house at all. That he'd walk in to take a pee, start crying and never stop.

But he's so happy to see everyone else that it doesn't matter. He pees in the bathroom where Mom died and it's fine. Just a little sad. He misses her so bad. But she'd be sad if he was sad. And he's here with all the rest of his family. Even scary Lumen continues to be nicer than any scary person has a right to be, and so Cody lets her give him a hug to welcome him back home. She smells good and her skin is cool. It's a relief after the heat outside.

Grandma and Grandpa didn't stay long, but Cody doesn't mind. He can't even think about dinner. He'd had a room to himself in Orlando when Astor left, but it wasn't the same. This is a room specifically his, and for him alone. It only has the most basic furnishings, but Dexter said they could go garage saling and look for stuff. And he has his own window. It's not much of a view, just over the driveway to the other house. But like all windows and doors, it's a magical thing.

He's about to close up again when he sees movement on the other side. A boy is opening his own window, leaning out to peer at Cody.

"Hi." The boy is gap-toothed, with sandy hair and friendly eyes. "I'm Nathan."

"I'm Cody." That said, Cody falls silent. He could say that his mom's dead, or that he came down from Orlando to be with his family. But he's never been very comfortable with words. They always seem to turn on him; fail him at the most crucial moments. And the ones who wield them with far greater skill often seem to put them to uses most cruel.

Nathan climbs out his window, drops to the pavement and walks over. He's not quite as tall as Astor, his slim and developing muscles well defined for his apparent age. He gazes up at Cody with an expectant look.

"You want to build a fort?"

  


* * *

  


Deb's prepared for the usual runaround. Any good gun store owner knows their rights. Usually they're polite but firm, quick to call out any misstep or overreach by law enforcement; equally ready to lend a helping hand should the need arise. She hasn't dealt with this guy before, so it's anyone's guess.

Luckily they're only here to confirm what they already know. The gun used in the motel shooting came from this store, without a doubt. Or so says the receipt they found in the dresser drawer of suite 321. Sold less than a week ago, to the man who'd hoped to save his own life. Only to have it turned on him.

She still can't begin to imagine what's going on. But the more she sweats over the details, the more Deb thinks they're looking at a tragic accident. A moment of stress that spiralled out of control.

"Thanks for your time." Deb nods. "We'll call you if we have any more questions."

"No problem." The owner returns her handshake. Pleasant enough, but clearly glad his dealings with them are coming to an end.

"Actually -- I got a question." Quinn sounds like he's about to tell a joke. Looks like it, too. "And you're probably not gonna believe it."

"Try me." The owner chuckles. "I've heard some good ones."

Deb's not sure, but she thinks she can feel a knot in her stomach. Just beginning to form, unsure how much pain it will bring.

"This woman." Quinn pulls out his wallet, flipping through photos. "The blonde. Pretty one."

Deb swallows as she stares at the photograph in Quinn's hand. It's an office party; spouses and partners of all kinds had been encouraged to attend, but only half ended up making it. Rita stands in front of Dexter, his hands on her shoulders, her own clasped in front of her like a patient schoolgirl. The smile on her face is a hopeful one, every aspect of her bearing prim and proper.

"You ever see her?"

Quinn is watching the other man's face very carefully. Nevertheless, his voice is perfectly casual. Deb fights back her own rising fear before looking at the store owner herself.

"Yeah." The owner nods once, looking back and forth between the two of them. "She was here. Yesterday."

"You're sure?" Deb can't help sounding more intense as she takes control of the interview.

"I'm sure." The man pauses. Like they're going to love this next part. "She wanted me to give her a gun."

"Give," Deb repeats. She's not sure which part of this more offends her sense of disbelief. Because if she hadn't seen with her own eyes a woman who looked and behaved exactly like Rita, she wouldn't be standing here listening to this bullshit.

"I know, right?" The owner shakes his head. "I figured it was some rookie sting gone bad."

Quinn still sounds nothing but calm as he stands there, one elbow leaning on the counter. "So what happened?"

"Nothing." The owner looks at them both again, verifying their awareness that he would never break the law. "She couldn't even show me a driver's license. I sent her packing."

"Yeah, well apparently?" Deb can't help the venom as she leans forward with both hands on the counter. "You just saw a fucking ghost."

"Hey." The owner takes a step back, raising his hands. "I did everything I was supposed to. I acted in good faith --"

He breaks off as Deb turns and walks away, slamming the door open as she stalks out of the store. She can hear Quinn behind her, doing his usual schmoozy best to smooth things over.

"Don't worry about it." Quinn's voice holds all the assurance a card-carrying member of the old boy's club can provide. "Just...be careful next time some woman comes running up with a sad story."

"I was careful." The owner's voice is still barely audible through the crack in the swinging doors. "Is she gonna --"

"We'll call you." Quinn turns and sees her, shaking his head as he walks toward her. Deb turns and heads for the car before he can open the door.

Quinn looks genuinely baffled as he climbs into the passenger seat. "What are you pissed at me for?"

"You really want to know why?" Deb grips the wheel and stares straight ahead, ready to bite off her own tongue. "I'm pissed off that I can't tell you why I'm fucking pissed off."

Quinn's voice is too gentle. "Then why don't you get it off your chest?"

It's too much. She can feel herself crumbling again. And Faith isn't here to help her make sense of this crazy shit. To hold her close and somehow make Deb feel like everything will be all right.

"Hey, hey --" Quinn's undoing his seat belt, scooting over to take her in his arms. The last thing she should be doing is returning the embrace. Holding him with all her might, close to shattering under the strain of everything she can't bring herself to say.

"Not hitting on you." His words are as soft as the touch of his fingers stroking her hair. "Not hitting on you, Morgan. But I swear to God. You're fucking killing me."

She refuses to let the dam break. Somehow, she'll get through this moment. And the next. And the one after that.

"But you know what's worse?" His arms tremble as his grip tightens almost imperceptibly. It's like most of the force is being channeled inward, into his own body. "You're killing yourself."

He pulls away. Gazing fondly at her streaked and blotchy face, as he wipes away her tears.

"And if I let that happen --" Quinn shakes his head. "Your girl might get pretty weepy. Could decide to blame me."

"Fucking douche." Deb's laugh is a shaky one. Quinn allows her to disengage and she turns away, cheeks burning afresh from a different source.

Something's got to give. She just doesn't know which will be the first to go, in herself or someone else. Perhaps the world at large.

"Maybe you should drive." She clears her throat, trying to sound normal. "I need to think."

  


* * *

  


I'm putting away clean dishes when my stepson bursts through the door, covered in mud.

"Dexter!" To his credit, Cody doesn't come any further inside. He stands there, bouncing up and down like a jumping bean, unable to contain his excitement. "We built a fort!"

"Congratulations." I nod at the doormat. "Take your shoes off outside."

"Can I stay out until dark?" Cody's pleading has reached maximum speed in record time. "We're right next door. And Nathan's dad gets back at seven and he said if it's okay I can stay and have hot dogs --"

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down there, tiger." I walk over and kneel in front of him, wiping a smudge from his cheek. "Who's Nathan?"

"He lives next door? They moved in when Elliot moved out?" Cody isn't bouncing quite as high now, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "And he's really nice, and I think he likes Astor. And you can see us right from the window --"

"You let me know as soon as your friend's dad gets home." I fix Cody with a stern gaze. "Then he and I can decide. Fair enough?"

"Okay." He gazes back at me, eyes wide in the near mask of mud that surrounds them. "Can I go back out now?"

"You bet." I ruffle the remaining clean spot on top of his head. "But stay where I can call you. And I don't mean on the phone."

Cody nods, looking comically serious. Then he turns and vanishes out the door, before I can change my mind. Also before I can tell him to clean up after himself. A crucial skill for any young man.

I also wonder how old this Nathan is. Building a fort seems innocuous enough. But if this boy has eyes for Astor, the potential for trouble rises at an exponential rate.

I peek out the window. To my relief, Nathan appears taller than Cody and shorter than Astor, with a little more muscle. Most importantly, his facial structure is almost certainly that of a prepubescent.

Crisis averted. At least for a few years. Precocious, I can deal with. Not to mention that I'm sure this boy would never dream that my daughter is capable of taking out an entire squad of Marines, should it become necessary.

I know there are other living beings in this world powerful enough to challenge her. I also know that they're few and far between. That Astor is more than able to defend herself from nearly any threat by man or beast, or even demon.

And still.

I'm worried.

  


* * *

  


"I'll be fine," Quinn insists. "Get your ass inside, and get some sleep."

"I can sit with you while you wait." Morgan sounds defensive and stubborn. Always a bad combination.

"I'm fine." Quinn stresses this with a hand on her shoulder. "Go lie down."

He watches her trudge up the stairs, waiting for her door to shut before pulling out his phone. The cab is quick to arrive, and Quinn settles into the back seat, dialing the number now labeled OWEN.

"Had to run an errand." He gazes at Miami speeding by, just the other side of his window. "I'll be a little late."

By the time Quinn gets back to his place, puts gas in the car and makes it out to Bayside Park, it's getting on toward sundown. Probably less than an hour of light remains in the day. It's Owen who spots him first from a park bench, standing up and raising a water bottle in a brief salute.

"Howdy." Quinn doesn't squeeze that hand too hard. Guy looks about like he figured. 

"Hello." Owen barely returns the pressure. At least he's looking Quinn in the eye. His eyes are watery behind the glasses, a hint of blonde stubble forming along his jawline.

"Why don't we start with why you're looking for this woman," Quinn suggests as they sit down. "See where that takes us."

It doesn't take long. A tale as old as time, with all manner of drama and heartbreak. Owen lays it out for him in a series of brief anecdotes, each sadder than the one before, culminating in his current desperate need for closure. But the kid claims he just wants the truth.

Quinn's heard that before.

"I might have something." He watches the other man carefully. "But I can't have you gettin' in my way. I don't need some cowboy coming in and stomping all over the place. Getting me shitcanned."

From the look on Owen's face, he hadn't considered this. Not the deed itself. Just the implications.

"And I don't know what this guy told you -- but I'm not Stan Liddy." Quinn allows himself to sound more menacing. "I don't color outside the fuckin' lines."

Owen purses his lips. A moment passes before he nods.

"All right." Owen sits up and leans forward, lowering his voice. "Then you need to start with a different name."

"You're the boss," Quinn says. 'Who?" 

"Dexter Morgan."

This is not happening. Then again, it means Owen is already almost as far along as Quinn himself. If this tenderfoot's PI has already made the connection, it gives Quinn far less leeway. All too soon, he's going to have to decide where his true allegiance lies.

Somehow he maintains his poker face and makes it through the rest of their meeting. But his phone starts to vibrate in his pocket as he's walking away from the picnic table. Quinn's ready to ignore it when a premonition surfaces, disappearing again before he can get a good look.

The screen displays a single character. A question mark.

"Hello?" Quinn tries not to sound desperate.

 _"Joey."_ An ocean of relief in that one word, that delicate voice. Quinn had often thought it sounded just like an angel's. 

"That's me." He swallows a curse as he fumbles with his keys, nearly dropping them in the dirt. "Who's this?"

A pause. _"We spoke last night --"_

"I need you to say it." He can hear her breath on the other end of the line. That much at least is real.

"Please." He echoes her own petition. Imploring her with every fiber of his existence. "Tell me who you are."

The pause seems to stretch into infinity.

_"I don't think so."_

And yet, right now, Quinn would swear that he knows. That he's more certain than ever. It doesn't make it any less crazy. Or impossible. But there it is.

"Rita." It's out. He said it. He says it again, feeling light in the head, numb in the fingers.

 _"This was a mistake."_ She sounds tragically sorry for him. For this entire damn world. _"And since I'm about to do something pretty damn stupid --"_

"Wait." But his interjection falls from stiff lips, his frozen brain shorting out all its circuits.

 _"If I don't call back tomorrow -- I'm probably dead. And if I am?"_ Her pause is so brief he doesn't have time to guess. _"It was Dexter who did it."_

"Jesus!" Quinn's free hand is gripping the steering wheel, trying to wrench it loose from the console. "Rita --"

_"Goodbye, Joey."_

He's still yelling when she hangs up. His desperation echoing inside the car, causing passersby to give him curious looks. Or quicken their pace.

Getting upset is not going to solve anything. It won't even make him feel better. Like Owen said. Right now, what Quinn needs more than anything is information. Even a little.

He hopes it won't be too much information. Doesn't want to know what could be worse than losing the only woman you ever thought you could love. But with his luck, Quinn's pretty sure.

He'll find out soon enough.

  


* * *

  


She's no Sarah Connor, but Rita's as ready as she'll ever be. She's got it figured out at least as far as her approach. God only knows how the kids will react to her presence. The only sane thing at this point -- and this says it all -- is to slip into her house under cover of darkness and perform a covert assassination.

Of course it won't remain covert for long. Something about firing a gun tends to agitate folks. But past a bullet in the brain of Dexter Morgan, she can't imagine anything else. The future is unwritten, leading to a cliff that fades into pure white or black.

She might fall forever, or land who knows where. Somewhere even worse. All Rita knows is that she can no longer remain the passive observer.

It's time to act.

The air is cold as she leaves the house. She shuts the back door as quietly as possible and stows the key under a rock in a nearby flower bed, covered in a few inches of dirt. Then she walks to the fence, standing on her toes to peer over into the next yard.

No doghouse. Might still have a dog, but she'll take that chance.

She hops the fence before she can lose her nerve. No voices are raised in anger or surprise as she jogs across the yard. She'd left the baseball cap behind in the other house. It's kind of embarrassing, and even during the day it makes it harder to see.

The stars are out, barely visible in the glare of the security light from the garage. If she can get on top of the roof, she can walk right over to the second story window. Smash it, gain quick entrance. Or fire through the window into the bed.

It's a bad idea in more ways than one. But what choice does she --

Something rustles in the dark.

She freezes in place. Her back to the wall, breathing shallow through her mouth. 

A shadow falls from the roof above. A slight, slim body wraps around her with terrifying speed and irresistible strength. 

Someone is screaming as Rita falls to her knees. It's Astor. Right in her mother's ear, as the enraged girl squeezes the life from her body.

"I'll kill you!" Astor's voice is consumed with emotion. Her daughter sounds ready to weep. "I'll fucking kill you --"

_"Astor!"_

A surge of adrenaline floods through her at the sound of that voice. For a moment Rita nearly manages to rise to one knee.

"Dexter!" Astor doesn't sound like she's exerting any effort at all. Her tone is a warning on more than one level. "Stay back --"

"It's okay."

She can't move. Paralyzed by someone else's muscle and her own memory, as she stares into the face of the monster.

"Don't worry."

A pinprick slides in just below her jaw. The world tilts. Slowly fades away.

As the darkness closes in.

"You're safe now."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up confused. Guarding a prisoner. Keeping watch. An apology, and a sneakily acquired admission. And some interesting test results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may be totally off on the MRI here, and you know what? For once, I'm not letting it bug me.
> 
> * * *

"Mom?"

It's near pitch black as Cody sits up in bed. For a moment he thinks he's still in Orlando. Then he sees the door cracked open, the sliver of light from the hallway. His new room, in the old house.

He's about to call out again. Except he's remembering everything else. That's when she appears in the doorway: A slight woman with blonde hair, dressed all in white, holding a candle.

"Just me." The soft roundness of Lumen's face is lined with jagged, flickering shadows. "Can I come in?"

Cody nods, silent as his new stepmother approaches and sits on the edge of his bed. Her movements are graceful, but with a slightly robotic and hesitant quality, as if her body is running a second or two behind her thoughts. She's wearing the same white shirt and pajamas from when she tucked him in earlier. She hadn't tried to kiss him goodnight, which was fine. He wonders how long it will take before she does.

"You okay?" Lumen merely sounds concerned as she searches his face.

Cody can't pinpoint the nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He's still wearing the cross Astor gave him, under his nightshirt. Lumen had seen it when she was helping him change. He'd thought she was getting a headache, or about to be sick. But she just pulled his shirt over his head and he hadn't thought any more of it. He doesn't know why he's thinking about it right now.

"I had a bad dream." It's not true, but it's almost an automatic response. Just another thing he got all too accustomed to saying at Grandma and Grandpa's. "I thought I heard someone yelling."

"I probably had the TV up too loud." Lumen sounds casual, but she's watching him closely. "Your dad was moving some stuff up to the attic. I was trying to drown out the noise."

As if to confirm her story, he can hear the squeak of the staircase coming through the wall. Whatever Dexter's moving, it sounds like he needs help. Cody is only mildly surprised. He still remembers the sting in his shoulder, the overwhelming force of Astor's grip.

"I could tell you a bedtime story," Lumen offers. "If you have trouble getting back to sleep."

Cody looks dubious. "Is it scary?"

"Only a little." Lumen smiles and pats his knee through the covers. "And I can guarantee a happy ending."

  


* * *

  


It's a cool night, but the attic is poorly ventilated. Even with Astor's help I'm sweating, my shirt already drenched at the armpits.

"Careful --" My hiss turns to a sigh as our burden's head nearly smacks into the wall.

" _You_ be careful," Astor hisses back. For obvious reasons, she's taking the lower position as we haul the body up the last of the stairs. Her fingers are white with tension, knotted into the clothing of the woman we're carrying, and she looks like she's ready to tear someone apart.

I know the feeling. This is the second time in six months our family has had the scab abruptly ripped from a healing wound. We'd both seen a fleeting figure climbing over the fence, moving furtively across the back yard. Except Astor's speed had allowed her to get the drop on the intruder while I was still in the process of loading a needle full of M-99. I'd barely made it outside in time to prevent something very ugly.

Unfortunately, Astor's still not taking it well. I can see the need for violence in her eyes, the desire to beat or crush or slice even the tiniest of answers out of someone. What I need is to figure out what's going on. Before she decides on starting with me.

I've brought up a bike lock from the garage, looped over my shoulder. Metal wrapped in plastic, it ought to help cut down on the noise. If Harry was still around -- or his ghost -- I'd no doubt be getting an earful right now on all the ways that this is my worst idea to date. But the immediate calculus of risk frowns on driving through the city with the living body of my dead wife inside my trunk.

"You can't let Cody see her." Astor finishes securing the chain and immediately rises to her feet, backing away. Her entire body seethes with nervous energy, her angry stare fixed on the unconscious woman at our feet.

"I won't." I check my watch. "But that shot won't last more than a couple hours."

"What the hell is going on?" Astor looks like she's fighting to stay mad. She turns and glares at me, demanding answers. But I can see her ready to break.

"Astor." I kneel down in front of her, so she has the height advantage.

"You can't lose control of your emotions." I take her hand, stare up at her with all my most earnest persuasion. "Not when it's a matter of life and death."

"What isn't?" Astor's pronouncement is a funereal dirge. "It's all life and death."

I ease myself to the floor and cross my legs, wincing at the various and widespread aches in my muscles. "Have a seat."

Her eyes slide over to our sleeping beauty dressed like the handsome prince. Finally Astor sits down, only at the last looking at me.

"How do we know she's not a vampire?" I make it a rhetorical question as I count off the talking points. "Pulse. Respiration. And --"

"Reflection." Astor nods. Even in our state of mind, it was obvious. We'd both seen the mirror image, faintly visible in the window as we carried her inside.

Every part of me wants to call this woman by her name. But there's still no way to know.

It's time to ask the experts.

"What time is it in London?" I try to remember. "Is Faith still in London?"

"I'll try her right now." Astor pulls out her phone, sending another cold glance at her mother's doppelganger. I can only hope Faith will pick up. Some of these meetings of the New Watcher's Council can take forever.

Luckily the conversation is swift and to the point. Astor hangs up with a look of grim satisfaction.

"She said someone will call us back." Astor rolls her eyes. "Probably Andrew."

"I'll call off work." I'm already thinking how to reorganize the day. If Cody spends most of it playing with the boy next door, we should be able to muddle through. "We have to keep your brother distracted."

"Both of them." Astor looks at me like I'm forgetting the obvious. "Harrison's starting to talk."

She's right. No longer can I conduct my business with impunity in full view of my youngest son. Not when there's no way of knowing what the next words out of his mouth might be. Or who they might be spoken in front of.

"I'll wait for the call." I hold out my hand. "You get some rest."

Astor scowls, but hands the phone over without hesitation. The door to downstairs is four inches thick and solid wood, lying flat on the floor to be operated by rope and pulley. Astor ignores the rope and lifts up the door with one hand.

"She came here to kill you." Astor stands there holding the door, staring me down. She glares at the fallen woman in the corner. "And you're gonna try to save her."

I don't want to think about it. Right now there are too many other things on my mind. Much more important things.

Astor shakes her head and tromps down the stairs. The door descends with each step she takes, finally coming to rest.

One of the boxes has a few old and scratchy blankets. I spread one out on the opposite side of the room, crammed in at an angle under the low ceiling. With our mystery guest chained to the main timber, I'm well out of reach. I hesitate only a moment before draping a blanket over her, leaving her face uncovered.

I don't want to gag her. But it may be prudent, at least on a temporary basis.

If Harry is still watching over me? From wherever he may happen to be?

He's probably shaking his head.

  


* * *

  


The 3300 block of Meadow Lane is as quiet as the rest of it at half-past four in the morning. A sanitation truck is the only other thing on the street as Owen parks three doors down from his target, pulling out a map for his cover story. He rolls up the window and watches the truck pass by from the corner of his eye, pretending to focus on the map.

There's not much sign of activity from the outside, but he doesn't scope out the house for long. He's wearing a baseball cap, traded his dress shirt for tie-dye, and yet Owen can't shake the feeling of unseen eyes that watch his every move. If Lumen is in the house -- or is out, and returns -- he's a sitting duck. He's not prepared to get down and dirty in the street. He'll never be on that kind of level.

As a private citizen, Owen may have less authority than Quinn. But he also has just a little more leeway. A few less rules restraining his behavior.

All he needs to do is gather enough solid information. Enough for Quinn to justify butting in and flashing his badge around, demanding to know just what the hell was going on. Although Quinn strikes him as more of an F word fellow. But once the law gets involved, that'll be the end of it.

Nine minutes and thirty-eight seconds have elapsed since he pulled up to the curb. Owen shakes his head, chuckling at his own obvious foolishness as he tosses the map to one side.

He doesn't risk an actual glance as he passes 3319, but it looks idyllic. An SUV in the driveway; a few toys in the front yard.

Owen can feel his rapid heart slowly descending to a lower gear as he turns the corner. His palms are damp with excitement at his first successful foray into practical spycraft. Already he's flush with ideas, envisioning a truck and a set of coveralls that justify his presence without question. A utility worker, or worker of any kind, is practically invisible.

Jones was right.

The possibilities are endless.

  


* * *

  


"What are you waiting for?"

"Call from a lady, all right?" Quinn manages not to snap at her. Deb's curiosity seems genuine, if mild. 

What he's waiting for is a call from the lovely Rita to say she's doing just fine. But if Deb still can't confide in him, Quinn is more than happy to keep his own counsel. With all these other cases piling up, one motel shooting isn't going to rate much attention from the department. He knows this as well as his partner does. Trouble is, he doesn't even know if they're chasing a ghost.

She hadn't said what time she would call. Technically, he can give her until midnight. Except he's already getting antsy.

Especially since Dexter called in sick this morning.

He's been trying all day to suss Deb out. But his so-called partner doesn't seem any closer to deciding she's ready to take their partnership to the next level. He can't even tell if she knows what's going on with her brother.

This is so unfair.

Again: Fuck it.

He gets up from his desk and walks over to Deb's, sits down on the edge like she does all the time with his. She starts to say something, but Quinn shakes his head.

"I haven't been very fair to you." He has to mean it. And he does, every word. "Cause this freaky shit I got going on? I don't know how in the hell I'd tell anyone. Not without losing my badge and getting sent to a little white room."

Deb utters an unhappy laugh as she stares down at her lap. "You always did know how to make me feel better."

"I'm just saying." Quinn searches her face for some acknowledgement. "When you're ready -- I'm here."

Deb looks up at him, managing a halfway smile. "Somebody has to be, right?"

"Partners." Quinn holds up a fist for her to bump.

"Partners." Deb looks him in the eye as she returns the gesture. It's an encouraging sign. "Fuckin' douche."

"And I know your brother's got that little boy to raise." Quinn turns and heads back to his desk. Like their conversation is the last thing on his mind. "But he should still be there for you. I mean, you've had his back since forever."

"Tell me about it." Deb's mutter has a distinctly bitter edge.

"That new girlfriend taking up all his time?"

"Fuckin' Lumen --" Deb coughs, abruptly silent.

"Huh." Quinn ignores her as he pulls a fresh report from his inbox. "Funny name."

  


* * *

  


"And you have your phone?"

"Yes." Cody holds it up so I can see. He's already champing at the bit, eager to be off and away for the day.

I'm glad, in that it makes my job easier. But totally apart from the increasing number of secrets I'm keeping from my son, I'd been looking forward to spending the day with him myself. Instead, I'll be engaging in a particularly tricky and complicated scheme.

"All right." I nod, giving Cody a Serious Look. "Lumen's inside if you need her. And we should be back from our errands when?"

"Three o'clock." With a visible effort, Cody forces himself to stop rocking on his heels.

"And if anything happens before that?"

"I call Aunt Deb." Cody looks ready to salute.

"Good man." I start to pat him on the head, then think better of it.

"See you tonight." I hold my arms open, giving Cody the option of a hug.

"Okay." He practically slams into me as I return his embrace. "Can Nathan come to dinner?"

"Maybe next week, okay?" I try to keep a positive tone. "You just got here."

"Okay." Cody's disappointment seems manageable. "Can I stay up late and read with my flashlight?"

I frown in mock puzzlement. "Do you have school tomorrow?"

"No." Cody giggles. The look on his innocent young face is downright sneaky.

"Then as long as you get your chores done?" It's a short list, consisting mostly of keeping his own room clean. I smile and squeeze his shoulder. "I'd say you can stay up as late as you want."

"Good one." Astor shakes her head as she watches her brother fly out the door, waving goodbye to us as an afterthought. "Stay up as late as you want. With a vampire in the house."

"He's less likely to notice at night." I peek out the window. Nathan's got Cody set up with a plastic bat and is trying to get him to take a swing at a series of slow pitches. "He'll probably fall asleep before midnight."

Astor looks skeptical, but she doesn't argue. I'm glad she's saving her breath.

"You got her?" I can't help sounding concerned.

"I've got her." Astor balances the trunk on her shoulder, looking impatient. It's a massive old steamer model I was lucky enough to run across this morning at a consignment shop. Most things big enough to hold a body are far more conspicuous. At least this one's rather small.

I've already shot up our captive again. Another dose of M-99 will make her headache worse, but keeping her sedated is crucial to the plan. I hold the door for Astor, watch her slide the trunk into the waiting SUV like it's a sheet of paper.

"Mask?" I hold up mine.

"Check." Astor holds up two.

I nod and take a deep breath. "Let's do it."

A jogger stands on the corner in Miami Dolphins colors, doing stretches. I offer a friendly wave as we drive past. He's looking right at us, but he seems more startled than anything. With glasses like those, it could be his first time ever out from behind a keyboard.

"You're sure about this." I try not to make it sound like a question.

"I'm not worried." Astor's words are confident without being boastful. Still, her expression indicates some doubt. "Faith says looking like you belong somewhere is only half the story."

"What's the rest?" I ask.

"Acting the part." Astor cranes her neck to look in the back. The trunk is motionless, not a sound coming from within.

I smile. "She's right."

We follow the signs into downtown. The hospital campus is big enough there are plenty of places to park, but I'm looking for one within hailing distance of radiology. By the time I locate something suitable, it's after one o'clock.

"Over there." I nod at the entrance to the parking ramp, crammed full of unused wheelchairs. "And get one for yourself."

Astor's back in a flash. Given her superior strength, I'm the one who stands watch while she manhandles our prospective patient out of the trunk and into one of the chairs. Then it's her turn to keep an eye out as I strap a surgical mask over the mouth and nose of our Rita-ringer. A lock of blonde hair is caught in the strap and I gently pull it loose, brushing it back behind her ear.

It's really not as Mission Impossible as it may sound. Even post-9/11, most hospitals aren't really secure installations. All we need is access to an MRI machine. I've calculated our arrival to coincide with the least busy part of the day. I'm wearing purloined hospital scrubs and a hastily modified ID that hopefully won't be examined too closely, as well as a mask that matches the one on our patient.

I scan the lobby as we pass through the sliding double doors. So far, so good. There's only a single receptionist on duty. And a balding security guard with a paunch, trying to chat her up. Neither even looks in our direction as I slide my badge through the scanner, unlocking the door into the main wing. Astor rolls along beside us in her chair at a slow and deliberate pace, occasionally letting out a tiny, pathetic cough behind her own mask.

The suite at the end of the hall is dark. I flip the lights on, turn over the IN USE sign and shut the door. Astor is gazing around the room at the vaguely menacing tools of modern medicine, apparently wishing she'd stayed at home.

"Load her in." I nod at the tube leading into the chamber, its padded bed on the sliding track.

Astor kneels and tips our patient out of the chair, onto her shoulder before standing, turning and depositing her cargo on the bed. Rita-ringer's limbs are slightly crooked, and Astor takes a moment to adjust her. It's really rather sweet. Apart from Astor laying the woman's hands crossed over her breast, in the manner of a corpse.

I've only done this once before. The good news is that what we're looking for won't be hard to find. According to Faith, Darla was dying of syphilis when she was turned. Given the state of medicine four hundred years ago, there should be significant endometrial scarring. While it wouldn't be definitive proof, that would at least point in the direction of a vampire becoming human. Faith says it's not without precedent.

On the other hand, all the writings about Darla stress her inability to bear children even before contracting a fatal disease. So any sign of historical pregnancy would point in a different direction entirely.

I'm doing a final calibration when I hear footsteps outside. I jerk my head toward the door, but Astor's already ahead of me. She wheels over and pulls it open, glaring at the surprised technician. 

"Are you nuts?" Astor waves her hands, shooing them away. "Where's your mask?"

"Uh --" The technician appears unsure as he takes a half step back.

"She's right." I don't look up from the instrument panel. "We're supposed to have this one reserved."

"Jesus," the tech mutters. "Nobody told me --"

"And I'll bet nobody told you this whole place will need to be scrubbed down." I look up from the panel to find him staring back at me. "Oh yeah. And you make sure they're at least Hazmat-D."

"Understood." The tech turns on his heel and strides off down the hall, double time. Astor giggles and shuts the door.

She's not laughing twenty minutes later. Even the visible upper part of her face is a stone mask as we exit the lab. She remains silent all the way out to the parking lot, the whole time we're reloading our patient back into the car. It's not until we're pulling out that she pulls her mask off, looking over at me with a frown.

"Did you know?"

Being in mid-turn onto a busy street, I don't return the favor. "About?"

"Before she came to kill you." Astor's tone is a warning. "Did you know she was here?"

"I suspected." I don't bother to elaborate.

She doesn't say anything.

"I didn't know." I stress the last word. "We still don't."

Astor is very quiet. "And you didn't tell me."

"Can you blame me?" I try not to sound accusing. "You almost killed her."

Astor turns and stares out the window.

"I still might."

  


* * *

  


Owen still has no idea how they spotted him. Possibly they saw him the first time earlier this morning, then put two and two together. However it happened, he clearly needs to rethink his strategy.

He'd already been smarting over his encounter with the neighbor's boy. All his attempts at conversation to draw the youngster out were going just fine, until he asked about the girl next door. Then the kid clammed up tighter than a drum full of alum. It was enough to make Owen feel like the entire neighborhood had turned and pointed their fingers at him, their mouths open in a single collective shriek of accusation.

His phone is nearly out of power. He plugs it into the cigarette lighter and dials Quinn, who tells him Dexter didn't come into work today.

"He went somewhere with the girl." Owen peers over the dashboard. "They're just getting back now."

 _"You're watching the house?"_ Quinn sounds appalled. _"I said no cowboy shit!"_

"That's all I'm doing." Owen watches the SUV pull to a stop. "When I have something? I'll let you know."

Morgan's getting out of the car. He walks around back, popping the hatch to reveal an enormous antique trunk. Then he turns and heads for the house.

Owen cocks his head as the daughter hops down from the passenger side. She also walks around to the hatch. Then she turns and kneels on the ground.

He's not sure what's going on. But surely this barely teenage girl isn't going to lift that thing all by herself. It must be close to a hundred pounds. Even empty --

His eyes bug and his jaw drops as she stands up in one smooth motion. The trunk is clearly heavy, but not for her; she balances it easily on one shoulder, finding her own footing before turning and carrying it into the house. Dexter holds the door for her, says something as she passes that makes her laugh.

Owen stares as the front door swings shut. He's never been a big movie buff. But there's a famous line that seems appropriate.

_We're gonna need a bigger boat._


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nursing duty. A grocery run. Young male bonding. A horrifying realization. Two phone calls, one decidedly less helpful. And a simple plan goes awry into the abyss.

Even with our prisoner back upstairs in the attic, tucked away safe and sound, I'm not feeling any more at ease. Cody is still playing in the neighbor's yard, unaware of our nefarious goings-on.

I have no idea how much longer this blissful state of affairs can persist. In my lengthy and storied career as a serial killer, I've managed to keep an awful lot of balls in the air. More than once, I've come close to being caught. So close on more than one occasion that I thought I could taste the metal and ozone of the electric chair. The hairs in my nostrils set ablaze, my fillings melting into slag.

Lumen is still taking all this very seriously. The difference now is that she's actually worried. I don't blame her. Few things in life can invoke a state of primal dread that compares to our fear of the unknown.

In the absence of further empirical knowledge, we're stuck waiting to hear back from the experts. Or in this case, Andrew. Though I have to admit Giles can be difficult as well. I've only talked to the senior Watcher twice, when we were setting up Astor's visit to Scotland. As a long-time multiple passport holder, I'd been concerned. But she had made the trip in style. A luxury jumbo jet, both ways. Willow, the castle's resident witch, had offered to send my daughter back via magic. I'm not surprised the offer was declined.

Lumen's also volunteered for nursing duty. I hadn't thought about it. I'm not really accustomed to keeping people alive. But I'm glad for many reasons. For one, Astor will probably kill me if I try to give a bath to an unconscious woman who could be her mother's twin.

"As soon as she's awake?" Astor says. "We need to start getting some answers."

I watch from my seat at the table. Astor is at the counter making a quintuple peanut butter and jelly sandwich, plus butter. I'm sure this is Dana's fault.

"When I first met Lumen, she said her name was Rachel." I watch as Astor continues to add butter, fresh from the fridge in neat little cheese-like slices. "What makes you think this woman will tell us the truth?"

"I'll tell her what'll happen if she lies." 

Astor gives me an eyebrow brimming with intimation. Also intimidation, which despite her physical superiority, doesn't work as well. Part of it is the size factor, but there's also the fact that her challenge to me is clearly lacking in authority. And all the strength and skill in the world are no match for the wisdom of experience.

"We don't know her story." Again I stress the word _know_. "She could be anyone. But you said she had normal human strength."

Astor nods. "Unless she was faking that too." 

I purse my lips, openly dubious. "Do you think she was?"

"No." Astor turns away with a sullen air.

"Then I don't think I'm asking for too much." I look over as the bathroom door opens. Lumen carries the still unconscious body in her arms, stripped of its unisex clothing, now dressed in her very own bathrobe.

Assuming this is who I think it is.

"Astor and I need to pick up more supplies." I nod at Lumen's armful. "Will you be okay?" 

Lumen sounds mildly offended. "I just ate."

"So?" Astor's displaying the eyebrow of impending zinger. "You could decide you're in the mood for a snack."

"I'm not the one who went all Cobra Commander." Lumen sounds thoroughly ready to take this to the next level.

"Just get her back upstairs," I say. "We can't have her running around. Not until --"

"Until what?" Astor's eyebrow and tone indicate she's more than ready to argue.

"We'll be back soon." I take Astor by the bicep and gently urge her along. It's all I can do, so I'm very glad she decides to comply. I already have enough of a problem with people undermining my authority.

"You really need my help?" Astor sounds less grumpy as she buckles in.

"Hey, you're my little pack mule." I look over at her. "That's a compliment."

Astor rolls her eyes. Still, she seems mildly placated.

I back out and shift into forward, already going over the bigger items in my head. We really do need this stuff, but mostly it just seemed like a good idea to get Astor out of the house. I hope I won't have to keep these two separated for long. Or too often. 

I really need to talk to this Buffy person. Faith hardly has a bad word to say about her. And with two vampire partners -- successively, not concurrently, Dana had been quick to point out -- she must have some good advice for me, as well as my daughter. I just hope it doesn't turn out like the last time Astor came to me seeking counsel.

"What kind of chips do you want?"

"I don't know." Astor seems to affect greater than usual disinterest. "Can we get pork rinds?"

And I really need to talk to Dana.

  


* * *

  


Cody can't remember when he had this much fun. Nathan may be a bit of a showoff, but he's nicer than any big kid Cody's ever met before. The non-stop encouragement may not have notably improved his batting skills, but his mentor's enthusiasm remains undiminished.

"Throw it to me!" Nathan hangs out from the tree about ten feet up, one hand extended.

"Uh uh." Cody shakes his head, clutching the ball to his chest. "What if you fall?"

"I'm not gonna let go." Nathan wiggles his fingers. "Come on. Right there!"

Cody is coming to realize his new friend is very persuasive. He's not sure how it keeps happening, but Nathan hasn't had to talk him into doing anything. It's like every suggestion the older boy makes is exactly the best thing to be doing at that particular moment. Nothing so far that's made Cody balk, or think they might get in trouble. He's really hoping that doesn't happen.

He takes a deep breath, then winds up and lets go. His eyes are already shut partway through his swing, unwilling to bear witness to certain calamity. But Nathan's shout jolts them wide open. Cody stares as the older boy leaps out from the tree, fingers struggling to grab hold of Cody's wayward throw.

For a second he thinks it'll happen. Until the ball continues to go wide, Nathan's arms flailing like mad as he descends in an arc. He hits the ground with a thump and rolls, whooping and hollering as he completes five whole revolutions before coming to a stop on his back, arms outstretched to either side, laughing at the sky.

"You're crazy!" But Cody's laughing too.

Nathan's chuckles finally taper away as he sits up and leans back on his elbows. "Are you done moving in?"

"I brought all my stuff," Cody says. "I don't have a lot."

"Your sister was moving stuff in." Nathan nods, like he's saying _ah yes_ in an English accent. "She's pretty cool."

Cody frowns. "She's a girl."

"Some girls are cool." Nathan's nod this time is the confidence that only comes from being certain. "Maybe she's cool and you just don't know it."

Cody's always thought his sister was pretty cool. But she could be scary. Even before she got big. And really, really strong.

"What about my stepmom?" Cody tries to envision this concept. "Can she be cool?"

"I saw her in the kitchen once. But she didn't wave back." Nathan raises his legs over his head, balancing on his hands and shoulders before flipping gracefully to his feet with a grunt of effort. "I never see her outside."

"She's got a skin condition." Cody tries not to sound superior. Still, it's nice to know things other people don't. "It's like a sun allergy."

"That sucks."

"Yeah." Cody feels a tiny thrill of the forbidden at the word. He gives Nathan the wise nod of experience. "She has to take vitamin D."

"But I guess it's kind of cool." Nathan looks to him for confirmation. "I mean -- she's kind of like a vampire."

"Yeah." 

And Cody stops. Feeling the sun on his skin, the wind in his hair; hearing the sound of wind chimes, an ice cream truck the next block over.

Nathan's looking at him funny. "You want to drink from the hose?"

Cody looks up at his new best friend.

"Okay."

The cross feels like it's burning the skin under his shirt. Cody smiles and laughs at Nathan's jokes as they stand there waiting for the water to cool down.

He has to warn Dexter. But Dexter's smart.

How can he not know his girlfriend is a vampire?

"Hey." Nathan's still looking at him funny. "You okay?"

"I --" Cody takes a deep breath. There's a mild wheeze in his chest. "I get asthma sometimes."

Nathan nods, offering his sympathy. "That sucks."

  


* * *

  


She has to talk to Dexter.

And it's the last fucking thing she wants to do.

She'd honestly rather sleep with Vince Masuka. And while that last may be a bit much, Deb's never been much of a talker. Action is her middle name, her skinned knees and scabs the marks of battle showing her lack of hesitation. It's what keeps her coming back to the job despite the repeated trauma; the thing that stopped her from laughing and shooting Faith down when after a wide-ranging and hilarious discussion over multiple drinks, the stunning brunette in the denim jacket had plainly and openly propositioned her. Except no matter how gentle the tone, how sexy the voice or the person who says it, Deb doesn't think she's ever heard that kind of romance in the phrase: _You wanna fuck?_

She's not sorry. Not for the fuck, or any of the rest of it. But in a normal world, Faith would have been her biggest problem. Coming out on the job. Taking the extra ration of shit from everyone on the force who'd seen her crash and burn through relationships. Or the inevitable cringe-laden meetings where the bosses warned her about maintaining the department's image, all while sucking up in the hopes of convincing her to be their new public-facing spokespussy. Of course with her reputation, anyone dumb enough to hire Debra Morgan for a public relations gig deserves everything they get.

But no. In this world, her brother is a serial killer. And while he may have gone from human to demon to satisfy his urges, Deb still can't deal with them. Doesn't want to. Not with his past, his present or his fucking future.

And yet what choice does she have, when she can't help loving the little bastard with all her heart and soul? All she can do is thank God she's never had any bullshit incest issues to work through. It seems like the only way this could get any worse.

Except there's that whole _demon_ thing. Fucking vampires. The dead coming back to life in a million different ways, each one creepier than the last. And Deb honestly doesn't know how she would have dealt with all this fantasy fiction come to life, if it weren't for her new girlfriend. A tough-talking, sweet-ass kisser who turned out to be right smack dab in the middle of it all. A genuine goddamn superhero.

And a murderer.

It may be the one remaining elephant in their bedroom. Yet another detail on which Deb is more than determined to delay any discussion. And increasingly, another one of the unspoken shadows hanging over every overnight visit with Faith, every daily or bidaily or tridaily phone call. The good thing is that no matter how much time passes between, Deb doesn't sweat it. Not after the shit they've been through. But she still can't help feeling this fucking happy, every time she sees that name on the caller ID.

"Hey." Deb doesn't try to hide the happiness. It's enough to make her feel a little embarrassed, but what the hell.

 _"Hey there."_ Faith sounds a little more tired than usual. Rougher; sexier. Glad as ever to hear Deb's voice.

She does her best to tone down the eager. "You busy?" 

_"Wouldn't have called if I was busy."_ Faith's brief chuckle is replaced with a sober level of serious. _"But I do have some business."_

"Just what I need," Deb mutters. "More shit to hide from my partner."

 _"Thought that was me."_ Faith doesn't sound at all emotional. More like she's playing her role, performing as expected with the smartass response. _"So I talked to Dexter --"_

"Why am I not surprised?" It's not a snap back, but Deb's reply is quick and sharp.

A pause. _"There something I should know about?"_

"I could say the same to you." Deb's sorry the moment it comes out. Not for bringing it up. Just her own reaction.

 _"You're gonna hear this whather you want to or not."_ There's no malice in Faith's voice. Only tough love. _"You know my friend Dana? How she has trust issues?"_

"No!" Deb dismisses this hyperbole with a hearty _pshaw_. "What are the odds?"

 _"You could dial back on the sarcasm a tad."_ Faith is still cool as an iced cucumber. _"Just sayin'."_

"Yeah? Well, I kind of take it personally when people fucking wrap me up in plastic and put a fucking knife to me." Deb doesn't know how she's managing to keep from yelling. "And my niece. And my fucktard of a brother --"

_"Maybe it's because when she was a kid? Some psycho came to her house and cut up her family."_

"Jesus." Deb's memory is flooded with those dark and haunted eyes. Of every time she'd said something mean or insensitive.

 _"But he took her. Kept her in a basement."_ Faith's chuckle is devoid of humor. _"You can imagine."_

Deb swallows. It's still no excuse. But she'd never dreamed.

 _"Somehow? After weeks of being cut on? She escapes."_ Faith is sounding more bitter. _"And when they find her on the street? They put her in a cage. Pump her full of pills. And a few years down the road, she wakes up one morning -- like me. Except, y'know... less stable."_

Deb exhales. She's thinking of coming to in a chemical haze, something tight that clung to her body, preventing the slightest movement. And voices overhead. Low and murmuring voices, discussing her demise.

"Why are you telling me this?" Deb stares at the photo on her desk. It's Dad, the year before he went into the hospital. "What do you want me to understand?"

 _"Dana doesn't trust people. But she trusts your brother. Like no one I've ever seen."_ A light sigh. _"I don't know what other kind of fucked up shit you two have going on -- but that's good enough for me."_

"You don't --" Deb swallows the rest of it, one fist clenched as she stares at the picture of her father. He's not looking at the camera like usual, but shown in profile, gazing out the window like some pensive romantic poet. She'd gotten a couple of good shots that day, but this one is still her favorite.

_"I wish I was there right now."_

"You sound like you mean it." Deb laughs. It sounds too close to something else for her comfort.

 _"I care about you."_ Faith's declaration is open and plain, but far from lacking in emotion. _"And Dexter. And I know if anything happened to the little bastard? You'd be broken right the hell up. No matter how you want to play it for the crowd."_

"I know." Deb cradles her forehead as she stares into Harry's eyes. "That's why it hurts."

 _"Just be there for him,"_ Faith says. _"Cause he's going through some real shit with this Rita thing."_

"What?" Deb remembers the face, remembers everything about the last few days, and yet she still feels utterly at sea. "Did I miss something?"

 _"Unless you've been over at Dexter's?"_ The warning level in Faith's voice is reaching critical. _"You're probably missin' a lot."_

Deb's ears are already burning. She can feel them filling up with mercury as Faith fills her in on all the gory details; her head swollen with red liquid, ready to burst. Certainly not a lot of known facts on the ground. But it somehow comes as no surprise that her brother has once again succumbed to his stupid side. Maybe Darla had a point when it came to white knights.

"I'll call you tomorrow." Somehow Deb manages to sound normal. "Sounds like I should get over there."

 _"Sounds like a plan. They can probably use all the help they can get."_ A wicked chuckle from Faith. _"Don't get captured."_

"Only because you want me all to yourself," Deb retorts. "For your own sex dungeon."

Her knees wobble at the sound of another chuckle. Then there's a click, and silence.

"Bitch." But Deb finds herself grinning as she hits speed 1. It's a longer wait than she would have expected this time of day. She's just about to give up when the ring cuts off.

 _"Hey there."_ Dexter sounds only mildly flustered. _"What's up?"_

"Just checking in." She pitches her voice to an uncertain register. "Anything?"

 _"Not yet."_ The pause is imperceptible. _"Can I call you back? I'm waiting on someone in another timezone."_

"Sure." Deb refrains from grinding her teeth only by monumental effort. "I'll be here."

She's this close to grabbing her keys, strapping on her gun belt and heading out the door. But that last accidental discharge report is still stuck in processing. One more bullet without a damn good reason could mean trouble. And she's nowhere near ready to face off against LaGuerta with her job on the line. Not when she can't even be honest with her own partner.

One way or another. Someone has to save her brother from himself.

Maybe they can do the same for her.

  


* * *

  


He still has no idea what he's doing. But Owen is rapidly discovering how far you can go in life just looking like you do.

He'd been on the fence after this morning's scare, but he's starting to think Dexter's wave was nothing more than a false alarm. Just a random greeting in suburbia. Since his latest costume change, nobody's given him a second look. Apparently utility worker was a safe bet. He's actually surprised it's working so well. He'd found the coveralls and helmet in a second hand store, along with a tool belt that was readily populated, but had quickly abandoned the luxury of a matching vehicle. Jones would probably have all sorts of contacts and advice on the subject. For a price.

He's not averse to spending every last penny, if that's what it takes. But when it comes to Quinn, all of Owen's instincts tell him to play his cards close to the chest. Of course a cop wouldn't want some civilian stepping on his toes. Coming on to his turf, thinking he could do whatever he wanted.

It's taken him a while to work his way down the block to the Morgan house. He spends about thirty minutes stationed at each pole along the way, pretending to inspect it while scribbling on a clipboard, occasionally looking at a handheld multimeter. He'd been afraid some curious or smartass kid would run up and start yammering. Stuff like _How much money do you make_ , or _How many volts does it take to kill a person_. But for the most part, kids these days don't talk to strangers.

If anyone wants to see his badge, he'll say he left it in his truck the next block over. Offer to go get it for them. The gun is far easier to conceal in these baggy clothes, but he's still afraid someone with a keener eye will spot it right away. He's almost positive he won't be able to draw in time, should they try to take it from him.

Between the poor ventilation and his sorely wracked nerves, this heat will be the death of him. At least he remembered to bring a bottle. But its chill is long expired, the last bit of refreshing condensation on the outside evaporated into thin air. Owen can feel the remaining moisture inside him being slowly drawn out through his skin, into his clothes.

His mouth waters at the sound of children in the back yard, the splash and spray of a garden hose being enjoyed to the fullest. Their shrieks of laughter make him ache to be back home. Or in the national park he and Lumen had gone to during the first year they were dating. They'd stood forever at the edge of the forest in the cool morning fog, breathing in the air as they readied themselves to venture within.

He's been nursing a plan all morning, knowing full well it's not good. One of the upsides is that it won't take long. He still hasn't seen hide nor hair of Lumen. But he knows from Jones there's an infant child. If Dexter and the girl leave the house and don't take him along, leave the older boy next door playing with his friend, it doesn't prove that Lumen is in there. But it evens the odds enough that Owen is willing to bet.

And now the problem is that it's time for him to walk the walk. Because Dexter and the girl are, in fact, getting into the SUV not thirty feet away. Owen turns his back to them, squinting up the length of the telephone pole and scratching the back of his neck as if puzzled. The squinting is not an act. He'd left his glasses in the car, still deathly afraid of being recognized.

That girl must be a powerlifter. He'd been more worried about Dexter, but any confrontation with her may be almost as much of a challenge. It's this more than anything that made Owen come down on the side of needing both of them gone to put his pisspoor plan into motion. Anything that avoids direct conflict is all kinds of good. For everyone concerned.

The SUV backs out slow enough to make him sweat harder. He's feeling dizzy as it pulls onto the street. For a moment their rear bumper is a mere ten feet from him. Then Dexter shifts into gear and drives off down the street, leaving Owen drenched and shaking.

He doesn't hesitate as they turn the corner. The block is empty, the older boy safely occupied. This will be the first driveway he's ventured into. But if he can just keep it together, no one will notice. Or remember more than a worker who quietly did his job without causing a fuss.

The meter numbers aren't even visible as distinct digits. Owen bends a little closer before scribbling something down. Not close enough, but it's always been the fine details that elude his eyes. He's even legal to drive without glasses, hard as it is to believe sometimes. As for hitting a target, he's practiced enough both ways. More than any visual handicap, he should be concerned about his lack of skill and training. Or his profound lack of courage.

The back porch is in sight. Odds are good that the door is locked. But with the older boy a mere stone's throw away, the opposite is just as likely. It's the middle of the day. And if Lumen is here, keeping an eye on the younger kids, it might be easier to allow the older to come and go as he pleased.

He stands at the corner, listening. The laughter from next door is now mixed with purposeful banging. Amateur construction, if Owen's not mistaken. A sound he knows well from his own childhood.

Owen pulls a bandana from his pocket. He's already breathing heavily as he ties it over the lower half of his face, fast as his fumbling fingers can manage. He can pull it right off should the need arise, reassure Lumen of his identity and intentions. He hopes he's not having an asthma attack. Of all the childhood memories to evoke, it would be just his particular misfortune to have all his plans thwarted once again.

The screen is slightly ajar. His heart is pounding as his fingers come to rest on the doorknob. But the worried melody in his head becomes a victorious shout as it slowly, easily turns within his grasp.

It's a storage room. Probably a back porch, until someone decided to enclose it. Cardboard boxes and equally large plastic storage tubs are stacked high along the walls, sitting on pallets to avoid moisture. It's a nice detail. A sign that someone actually cared about what they were doing.

The door on the opposite wall is an empty frame. Each step causes Owen to wince, ready for the resounding squeak of a floorboard to give him away. His right hand rests over the outline of the gun inside his coveralls. Ready to fumble.

He makes it to the door, peers down the shadowy hallway. From the far end comes a rustle, a bump and a clatter.

"God dammit," someone mutters.

It's a woman. He thinks it's Lumen, but his brain is rattled. Just a little closer...

"Shit!" An angry growl, followed by footsteps. Stomping away.

His knees are wobbly. Muscles twitching like they're one second from cramping, as he reaches the doorway.

Owen's jaw drops behind the mask.

A pretty blonde woman in a white bathrobe is lying on the floor. But he doesn't recognize her. Her arms restrained behind her back, legs held together at the knees and ankles with what appears to be a hastily applied layer of plastic wrap. An ugly scar that runs down the side of her face, perilously close to one eye. A towel stuffed in her mouth. And her eyes wide with fear.

He's already in motion. She sees him and her panic seems to escalate, going into a fit of mostly restrained struggling as she tries to squirm away.

"It's okay!" Owen whispers. He holds up both hands, kneeling beside her. "I've got you --"

His stomach sinks as the captive woman stares over his shoulder. At the inhuman growl that causes his entire groin to shrink and crawl up inside him.

The gun is out. Owen stands. Turns around and aims, in one smooth motion. Just like he practiced.

"How nice."

Lumen's face ripples and twists. Distorts into an unrecognizable mask of evil as her mouth opens wide, revealing cruel fangs.

"Someone delivered."

His scream is drowned out by the roar of the gun.

Owen stumbles backward. Trips over the body of the woman at his feet.

He turns and runs for the door, his senses on fire, all thought fled before blind unreasoning terror. He's out the back and down the driveway before he thinks to shove the gun in his pocket. He knows he should slow down to a walk, try to look as confused as any other curious bystander. But his legs won't stop running, nearly sending him facefirst into the pavement every time he sends another fearful glance over his shoulder.

At least one neighbor is out in their yard, dialing their phone as Owen runs by. He doesn't care. All that matters is to get as far away as possible, as fast as he can.

Who is that woman? Why is she in that house? Why is Lumen helping Dexter keep her a prisoner?

And that face --

He fumbles with his keys. Gets the door open and himself inside, removing the helmet and shoving it under the front seat. The gun is hot against his belly.

He hasn't cried since ninth grade. And he's not going to do it now. Crying won't solve anything. He's not even entirely sure why he wants to, so very badly, as he sits there trying to breathe.

This is bigger than Jones, or Quinn. No private investigator can help. Not every last cop in the city of Miami.

He's on his own.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talking. Almost as much yelling. And more than one awkward silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stuff about Dana's literal connection with every Slayer past and present is my personal fanon, which originated in my [Faith the Vampire Slayer](https://archiveofourown.org/series/562) series. Ever since then, it tends to come out in most of my stories that feature her.
> 
> * * *

Where did it all go wrong?

"I told you to get her back upstairs!"

"Stop yelling!" Lumen matches my volume, unwilling to concede.

"Good idea." Astor's scowl seems to promise a staking if both of the grownups don't quiet down. I'm not sure which of us would be first to feel her wrath.

I glance over at our involuntary guest. I'm starting to have trouble coming up with epithets. She's trussed up on the couch, gagged and immobilized, watching our every move.

"I'm really sorry," I tell her. "Just give us a minute."

A grunt emerges from behind the towel. The pain in those eyes is so much more than physical. I don't want to imagine what she might have been through, in her world or mine. As if there weren't enough barriers to communication.

"I literally left her alone for five minutes." Lumen glares at the party in question. "You had just walked out the door. I went to heat up some blood --"

"Because you needed a snack," Astor chimes in.

"So it would be warm when I came back downstairs." Having delivered her retort, Lumen returns to normal volume. "I come out of the kitchen. She's starting to wake up. I try to calm her down --"

Rita-ringer lets loose with another muffled exclamation. This one sounds far more outraged. I eye the bands of plastic about her legs and wrists.

"You know what it's like." Lumen looks at me, daring me to object. "I didn't want her to break something."

Astor fires a round of full metal snark. "Like the furniture?"

Lumen's face is impassive as she looks over at my daughter. "Like herself."

"We can't call the police." Astor returns her stepmother's stare with practiced resentment, as well as outright worry. "Anyone could have heard that shot."

"If they were going to send someone, they would have already been here." I suck in oxygen; breathe out in a long, slow stream as I try to collect my scattered thoughts. "But I don't think this was a random break-in."

Lumen shakes her head. "Then who the hell was that guy?"

Indeed. Who was this strange masked man who broke in with a gun, tried to rescue our prisoner and took a shot at Lumen? What if he tells someone else about what he saw? They wouldn't have to believe all of his story, and he wouldn't need to tell it. Just enough for a search warrant.

I peek out between the blinds. Nathan and Cody are back to batting practice, with Cody now in the role of pitcher. I'm glad someone else is taking an interest in my son. Still, it's hurting me like it never has before to keep things from him. To take advantage of his innocence with more lies.

Like the ones that killed his mother.

"Get her upstairs."

I fix my gaze on the face of the woman I thought I loved. 

"We need to talk."

  


* * *

  


This is just what he needed.

In the middle of all of this insane and slightly less insane crap that's flying around, you'd think whoever's in charge would cut him the least little break sometime. But apparently when it comes to shitstorms, Quinn is destined for an unending barrage. He can imagine himself made up like a clown, sitting in the dunk tank for the annual Miami Metro charity fundraiser. At least then he'd be getting overtime.

They're sitting in the same park, at the same table. Owen is wearing brand new blue jeans and a pale blue dress shirt, just like the one from last time. He's freshly scrubbed; hair combed, glasses polished.

And he looks like an absolute wreck.

"I'd like to help you, Mister Hanson. I really would. But my hands are tied here." Quinn spreads his hands, indicating the invisible chains. "And if you can't give me something concrete to go on --"

"That's just it." Owen isn't even looking at him. He's staring at the grass, like he's never seen such a thing. "You already think I'm crazy."

"I --" He's never said that. Right now, it probably doesn't matter. He strives for the gentle approach. Anything to talk this guy down from whatever edge he's teetering over.

"I'm just saying." Quinn keeps trying to get the other man to look him in the eye, to no avail. "I need evidence, or sworn testimony. That's how you get a warrant. Understand?"

"I could swear." Owen's laugh is equally gentle, increasingly unhinged. "I could swear on a stack of Bibles..."

He trails off, looking lost.

Quinn can feel that slow anger starting to rise, a bubble of hot lava working its way up from belly to throat to his brain. That's him. A literal hot head.

"Why don't you go back to your PI." Quinn doesn't make it a question. "I got work to do."

He doesn't look back as he walks away. So what if his every instinct as a cop is saying these things are connected? Over and above the obvious insanity, of course. But if Deb and her super girlfriend aren't ready to share, then there's nothing to be done. Not for Joey Quinn. Not for anyone.

He stops for a chili dog, hoping it'll cheer him up. It tastes all right, but it sits like a rock all the way back to the station. The break room is out of antacid. So is everyone he asks.

Quinn doesn't even realize he's not headed for the main office until he's well into the lab wing. The white and sterile environment irritates him, so much he can feel the desire for violence gathering steam with every step. Everyone he passes by steers well clear of him, sometimes without even looking.

Vince looks up as Quinn enters the room. "Oh, no. No. No --"

"You're gonna tell me what the fuck's going on." Quinn stalks up and grabs the geek by his starched lapels, giving a light shake for emphasis. "Or I'm showing LaGuerta that picture."

"Wh--" Vince clears his throat. "What picture?"

Quinn leans forward. "The one you emailed me."

"Dude." Vince lets out a weak, sickly laugh. "I send a lot of links --"

"You'd remember this one." Quinn shakes his head. "I mean, I'm a homicide detective. And it was the most disgusting thing I ever saw."

Vince looks even more worried. "Really?"

"Days, I couldn't get it out of my head. Every time I think it's gone again -- boom. Right back in there." Quinn suppresses a shudder. "Like a nice juicy steak. Perfectly grilled, you're ready to bite into. And you realize the goddamn thing is crawling with maggots."

Vince swallows, looking stymied. "Wish I could help you."

"Classic case of harassment. And if I don't find anything from you that matches that description?" Quinn lifts Vince almost completely off the floor, the toes of his shoes barely brushing the tile. "I can photoshop that shit myself."

Vince considers this for approximately two seconds. "Okay."

It doesn't take long. All it takes is Vince Masuka pulling one piece of paper from the back of his bottom drawer. And Quinn's not even laughing at the sound of that. Not with a dead woman's fingerprints staring him in the face.

He stares back at them, feeling the flush of vindication. It's not as satisfying as he expected.

"You're right." Quinn hates to admit it, but he knows when he's beat. "This is over my head."

"That's what I told Deb." Vince drops the folder back in the file cabinet, sending a guilty glance out the window of his office. "Though I believe I used the words _pay grade_."

"Yeah?" Quinn zeroes in on that. "What about her?"

"It --" Vince struggles, finally giving Quinn a helpless shrug. "It's her funeral."

"And I'm her partner," Quinn snaps. "That's supposed to mean something."

"Take it up with her." Vince shakes his head. "I'm actually relieved. Now I can work on these other cases without having to worry about you."

"I will." Quinn turns and stalks out of the office, his words echoing down the hall. "Thanks for the tip."

Enough is enough.

It's time to seek an audience.

  


* * *

  


Being able to tell the truth from a lie is an important skill.

But it's not entirely learned. Part of what makes a species successful, what contributes to survivability, is anything that helps us accurately perceive and interpret reality. Our ability to see depth warns us away from a cliff. Just as our ability to sense when someone isn't being completely honest helps us avoid and root out those who might be hostile to our interests.

For most of my adult life I've relied on deception to blend in. My training from Harry was essential. And I've done my best to acquire the finest in camouflage. But the biggest thing working for me is other people's preconceived notions. Most people see what they expect to see.

What they want to see.

I thought I'd moved beyond the desire to have Rita back among the living. But now I'm grappling with an entirely different set of issues, on a whole new level. Bad enough our Rita-ringer might decide to lie, for whatever reason. And the possibilities for deception offered by the Watcher's Council are truly endless. The idea of perfectly crafted falsified memories. deliberately implanted via magic, is enough of a nightmare for me. I'd hate to be in a prosecutor's shoes.

How do you prove anything is real?

Philosophers and jurists have grappled with this problem since humanity first crawled out of the muck. But in a world where magic itself is real, almost anything is possible. Or at least has to be considered.

"Let's start again," I say.

Our prisoner's eyes are following every movement I make, hardly even pausing to blink. This is fear on a scale that dwarfs Lumen. For whatever reason, she seems more terrified of me than the literal vampire that just transformed right in front of her. I'll have to get to that in a minute.

"This is water." I hold up the bottle and show her the plastic seal on the cap before unscrewing it. I pour a bit into my mouth from an inch away, return her stare and swallow audibly.

"I understand if you don't want to eat or drink anything." I put the cap on the bottle and set it by her side. "But this isn't fairy land."

I can feel her trembling. If she wasn't wrapped up in plastic, she'd be flinching back into the corner. I've already chained her back up to the main post with an ankle cuff. She's still wearing her own bathrobe. I assume. I hope.

"I'm going to cut you loose now." I hold up a pair of safety shears. "See the guard on these? There's no way I can hurt you, as long as you just -- hold -- still."

I emphasize these last words by tapping the shears on the attic floor. Her eyes flicker down to my hand, back up to me.

"We want to help you." I allow some skepticism to creep in. "We didn't know if we could trust you."

This time the muffled sound through the towel is more like a laugh. Hardly a surprise. I hold up the scissors again.

"So if I cut you loose, I want you to promise that you won't scream." I think for a moment. "Or cause a fuss, or try to escape, or try to kill me." I don't add _again_. "Or anyone in this house."

I see her throat working as she swallows. She stares at me, consumed with fear and loathing; a burning exhaustion, despite her forced sleep.

"I don't know what you think you see when you look at me. But I swear." I can't put it any more plainly. "I just want to talk."

The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me turn as the door begins to rise, borne up on a slim and feminine hand. It's a little too large for Astor, confirmed when Lumen appears. I'm about to object when I see Rita-ringer's desperate gaze slide over to her. It only solidifies my plan of attack for questioning.

I hold the scissors to the plastic at her ankles, looking up with questioning eyebrows. She hesitates, then nods.

Her eyes never leave the blades as they zip through each layer. Lumen sinks to the floow beside us, cross-legged. Rather than shrinking away, our captive looks as though she wants to pull away from me, draw closer to the female.

"I don't think she saw you." I direct this at Lumen as I finish cutting away the bonds at the wrists. "Any idea?"

"I wasn't sure." Lumen casts a doubtful gaze at the prisoner. "Doesn't look like it."

"That helps." I nod to her. "Maybe you should do the honors."

"I'm sorry." Lumen says this as she gently takes hold of the towel stuffed in the other woman's mouth. Their eyes meet, and I see an almost imperceptible nod from both before she pulls the cloth free.

"Here." Lumen offers the water bottle. "I assume he already gave you the whole _it's not poisoned_ speech?"

"Didn't see the point," I say. I ease back a few feet, giving surrogate Rita more personal space. I can already see the tension easing, however slightly and reluctantly. She's stiff and sore and nowhere near relaxed. But her body language is being allowed more freedom of expression. I wonder how much we'll have to rely on being able to read it.

Her arms and legs are free now. She tries to sit up, weakly batting at Lumen as my girlfriend leans in, helping prop her up against the post. She's looking a little more fearful as Lumen draws away. That kind of unnatural strength isn't easy to hide.

"Who --" She coughs and swallows. Lumen holds out the bottle again and the woman grabs it, guzzling for less than two seconds before tearing the bottle from her lips, gasping for air. She looks terrified at her own bravery for daring to drink.

One word is enough for me. I know who this woman is, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But I force down the rising surge of emotion.

We've got a long way to go.

"I'm Dexter," I say. "But you probably knew that."

She looks at me like I'm crazy. The normal kind of crazy.

"This is Lumen." I indicate my girlfriend. "She's been taking care of you."

"Don't worry," Lumen says. "I haven't been siphoning from the tank."

Rita frowns in puzzlement. It seems honest enough. She must not have seen Lumen in game face. Or perhaps dismissed it as a trick of the light. Just her own runaway emotions wreaking havoc with brain chemistry.

"No. I mean --" She's looking at Lumen like this is the one who will save her from this nightmare. "Who was that man? The one who tried to --"

"He's nobody," Lumen says. Her eyes glitter in the dim light from the single underpowered bulb. "Forget about him."

"Maybe we can trade questions," I suggest. My nerves are tingling with the sound of that voice. "So now I get to ask one?"

From the look on her face, Rita would rather open her own wrists. "Do I have a choice?"

"Well, you don't have to answer." I think back to my talk with Astor. "You could always lie."

That briefly throws her for a loop. I can see her trying to figure out what I mean, even as she's convinced that nothing I say can be trusted.

"I'm just saying -- I have no way of knowing." I show her my hands. "Tell you what. Give me another."

Rita blinks. "Another..."

"Question," I say. "You get one more. Then it's my turn."

Nothing I do can be trusted either. That much is clear in her eyes.

"All right." Rita straightens her back, trying to look authoritative. Then she looks down and realizes her robe is coming undone. The expression on her face as she tucks it back in place is what a normal person would call precious. I'm certainly not unaffected.

I offer an encouraging nod. "You were saying?"

"Why --" Rita clears her throat. She's not looking at me, but down at her hand as it clutches the water bottle. "Why do you want to help me? When that girl --" She swallows. "Wants to kill me?"

"That girl is your daughter." I make it a gentle prod. "Isn't she?"

A sharp inhalation is my only answer.

"Sorry -- not my turn." I compose myself, gather my faculties. "The short answer would be that she thought you were someone else. At first."

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't this. I can see the wheels of her mind turning at breakneck speed. Try as she might, she can't balance this equation.

"And now?"

"She knows you're not that person." I watch her face. "But she also knows you're not the woman who died downstairs in that bathtub a year ago. And I think she finds that almost as disturbing."

The dim light makes it hard to tell. Still, I think she's turning pale.

"Where you come from." I don't specify any further. "Are there vampires?"

"You people are crazy." I can see her breathing more rapidly, preparing to move. Or scream. "And you need to let me the hell out of --"

Her anger and panic abruptly transforms into a mask of shock. Without looking, I can tell Lumen has gone into game face.

"It's okay." Lumen speaks with a slight lisp. The inevitable side effect of having fangs. "We don't want to hurt you. Well -- I do."

A tiny whimper works its way free from Rita. She scrambles back, pressing up against the post.

"But I won't." Lumen shakes her head briefly. Her face blurs and shifts, becoming human. "See?"

Rita's mouth is hanging open. Anyone watching would swear she'd just been struck between the eyes with a hammer.

"No -- he's not a vampire." Lumen cocks her head at me, giving me a look of grim affection. "He's just weird."

"I'd tell you to check my side, but it's healed up pretty good." I lift my shirt to show Rita my new scar. Then I see her starting to shrink inward, huddle into a ball.

"Rita." I say her name. It feels soft on my lips. "I can run downstairs and get Lumen some blood. So you don't have to worry about her being tempted."

She raises her head, staring at Lumen. It's not the sort of all-encompassing panic and paranoia she displays every time she lays eyes on me. More the natural and perfectly rational fear of a predator; heretofore unknown, but clearly in its own deadly class.

"Here." Lumen turns and lies down on her back, her head within inches of Rita's legs. Her face ripples into readiness, fresh for the kill. "Go ahead."

It takes a moment for Rita's hand to move. Even then it's in fits and starts, hesitating then drawing back. But finally her fingers come to rest on the raised ridge of cartilage that runs across Lumen's forehead, overhanging her eyes. I see Rita's own eyes widen further, her trembling hand slowly moving down its length; pulling away when Lumen casually opens her mouth despite the lack of overt threat. She stares at the razor-sharp fangs being offered for her inspection.

"I don't think this is your world," I say. "But last year, I didn't think vampires were real. Maybe they exist where you come from and you just don't know it."

Even with the truth staring her in the face, I can see her doubts. It gives me an idea.

"Hold on." I slowly climb to my feet, feeling pain in my knees. "I'll be right back."

The stethoscope is still in the same box where I packed it away. It pays to be organized. I'd brought it home from work a few years ago for Astor and Cody to fool around with. I check outside before I go back upstairs, but Cody is still hard at play.

"Here." I hand Rita the earpiece as I sit down, waiting for her. "Go on."

She looks at the scope like it's a venomous reptile. I set it down in her lap, drawing back my hand as I see her flinch.

She takes up the earpiece and gingerly inserts it into place. Her expression is wary, as if she expects it to come alive. I hold up the business end for her to see.

When I press it to my chest, I see a jolt go through her. She stares at me like she can't believe I'm real. The wooden boy, magically come to life.

I remove the scope from my chest and offer it to her in turn. She stares at it for too long before finally reaching out, quickly grabbing it. Her hand trembles and she finally reaches inside her robe. Staring me down the whole time, as if daring me to look away.

Again I can read that expression so well. She's hearing the sound of her own heart. It's a beautiful thing. To her, and to me.

Lumen pulls down the collar of her shirt to expose more skin. She gazes up at Rita, patiently waiting with a look of expectation.

The scope slowly comes to rest on Lumen's chest.

Rita wiggles it around, frowning as as she tries to locate what isn't there. But it's definitely starting to sink in; the more she moves from one place to the next, wearing an increasingly shell-shocked look.

It's only marginally different from before. But at least we're getting somewhere.

"And I can stay underwater forever." Lumen offers a tiny, friendly smile. "But I get kind of pruny."

  


* * *

  


Quinn thought he was ready for this. He probably never will be. But it's too late now, in more ways than one.

"I accepted that you dumped me, okay? This isn't about that."

They're sitting side by side at a picnic table, in the park where he's been meeting Owen. Quinn's thinking it's a nice change to have someone here he can trust. Then he remembers why they're here.

It's just nice that Deb's sitting beside him instead of across from. They sit together like the friends they are, watching as kids play and parents try to keep up. He tries not to think about the kids they might have had.

"But I know whose prints are on that gun." Quinn looks down at the ground, hands clasped before him. "I just want to hear you say it."

"Quinn --" Deb's protest is strong as ever. But there's less anger, whether directed at him or herself. Like she knows she's running out of excuses.

"And I'll tell you why I'm coming to you." Quinn pulls a folded sheet from his shirt pocket and offers it without looking over. Deb pauses before taking the paper from him, opening it with markedly more hesitation.

"So?" Her voice is confused. "Who's this guy?"

"Says right there." Quinn looks over, resisting the urge to point. "I mean, that is a driver's license."

"I can see that." Deb sounds like she wanted very much to add something to that sentence. "So who the fuck is Owen Hanson?"

"Guy came to me looking for someone. PI referred him." Quinn shrugs. "Boring so far, right?"

Deb glowers, just like the old days. "Until you hurry up and get to the point --"

"Nice guy. But kinda fucky. I told him no cowboy shit." Quinn sits up with a sigh. "Next thing I know? He shows up looking like he's seen a ghost crawl out of his own asshole." 

Deb's disturbance is taking on newly serious depth. Quinn presses on, determined to make something stick.

"Reliable information? Hell no. But he tells me there's a woman being held prisoner in your brother's house. Tied up, wrapped in plastic or some shit." He can see a flicker of the muscles in her face, a darkening in her eyes. "Any of this ring a bell for you?"

"That's ridiculous." Deb's laugh doesn't ring entirely hollow. But it's all too obvious she's still holding back. "Dexter's girlfriend -- she's a real night owl. And if they're into any kinky shit? That's the last fucking thing I'd want to know."

"No." Quinn shakes his head, watching his partner very carefully. "He says Dexter's girlfriend is the one who had her tied up."

Deb laughs again, giving him the look of the dearly mentally departed. "Are you high?"

"You know your brother a lot better than I do." Quinn goes back to looking at the ground. All the eye contact in the world won't help at this point. "I got no evidence. But if even a tiny part of you thinks there's something to it --"

"Quinn --"

"Cause I'd sure appreciate it." Quinn takes a deep breath. "You find out I got it all wrong? I'd be the happiest man on earth. And you can chew my ass out, from now until the end of time. And I'll take it. Gladly."

He can't think of anything more. Across the park he hears the shout of a young boy on the brink of manhood, victorious in his effort.

"My brother's a fuckhead. But if something's going on?" Deb's hand finds his and gives a reassuring squeeze. "I will find out the truth."

Quinn chuckles. "Course that doesn't mean you'll tell me."

Deb sighs and stands up, giving another squeeze before she lets go. "I'll call you."

He doesn't turn to watch her walking away. His memory and imagination are more than enough. And Quinn would rather sit back and look at the sky, enjoying the fine summer day. He's done his best. It's out of his hands.

For now.

  


* * *

  


"Dexter!"

Cody's jumped up and down thirty-two times before his stepfather notices him outside the window. Dexter appears somewhat startled, as if he's been caught doing something. He glances over his shoulder, then walks over and opens the window.

"Can I eat dinner at Nathan's?" Cody takes a deep breath. "His dad said it's okay and --"

"Yes." Dexter pauses, momentarily absent. Then he smiles and nods. "Yes. Absolutely. Have a good time."

"Really?" Cody can't believe it.

"Very much so." Dexter nods again. "You've got your phone?"

Cody digs it out and holds it up, then puts it back so he won't lose it. "Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah. Everyone's fine." Dexter gives him a puzzled look. "Something wrong?"

"I just thought I heard something." Cody accepts this. Still, he remains somewhat ill at ease. "I'll call you after dinner."

"Okay." Dexter gives him a bigger and more hopeful smile.

Cody smiles back as Dexter shuts the window. But as he turns and walks back to the neighbor's yard, his thoughts are stuck up against the wall with the bottom dropped out. Tilt-O-Whirl Extreme, step right up. No refunds allowed.

Nathan's still waiting on the back steps. He jumps to his feet as soon as Cody walks round the corner. "So?"

"He said yes." Cody's smiling, but his heart's not in it. "I guess they didn't hear anything."

"Probably some redneck cleaning his gun." Nathan dismisses this concern with a shrug. "You want burgers? We got some in the freezer."

Cody stands there, trying to think. He'd asked to stay for dinner. Because he wanted to, certainly. But also because every time he thinks of going back in his own house he feels like he has to pee. The thought of facing pale and scary Lumen, knowing what he now knows, doesn't just leave him shaking with fear. He knows that Astor can take of herself -- probably. But the knowledge that he himself isn't strong enough -- isn't _brave_ enough, to go rescue his little brother -- has Cody feeling sick to his stomach. Ashamed of his own cowardice.

But Harrison has been with Lumen all this time. She hasn't eaten him yet. And she's always been nice to Cody.

He doesn't know what to do. All he can think is that maybe Astor does. He'll call her later, after dinner. Before Dexter.

"Sure." He smiles, trying to remember how to be happy. "Do you have chips?"

  


* * *

  


Deb is sick and tired of this. Every time she feels like she's reached the limit of what reality and her own sanity can withstand, another curve spitball comes out of left field. Or whatever.

The only thing she knows right now is she's not going over to Dexter's. Not right away. Not until she stops at home to take a long after-work shower and psych herself up for whatever fuckery awaits. And if some woman is sitting around his house right now, wrapped in plastic and waiting to die, Deb hopes that woman can hold the fuck out. Because if she goes over there right now, more than one someone is going to die. Maybe after a shower she won't feel wrong strapping her gun back on her hip.

Except that's going to have to wait. Because there's someone waiting on her front step. A gorgeous long-haired brunette with dark and glittering eyes.

She approaches with considerable caution.

"Hi." Dana peers out from her curtain of hair.

Deb stops at a safe distance. "Hi." 

She's never told Faith, but this girl reminds her of Cousin It. Of course the reason for her reticence is the fact that anything Faith knows, anything ever known by any Slayer ever -- Dana shares that knowledge. It all adds up to thousands of lifetimes worth of trauma and battle-hardened experience, all continuously being updated. Filtered, perhaps, through multiple layers of untold mental disturbance, but inescapably and irrevocably part of the permanent record. The girl's a living Rosetta Stone, inscribed with the lives of others; an ongoing work in progress, often hard pressed to tell her own memories from the legion of others. With care and guidance -- and a trail of blood -- Dana's reached the point of being trusted out on her own. Given her hard-earned independence, after running away from home to kill bad guys.

But Deb will never forget. On some level it might be impossible to forgive a person who, inadvertently or no, had managed to recreate one of the least good moments of her life. The worst nights are the ones where she wakes up with that memory first and foremost in front of her brain. Thrashing under the sheets, or having already thrown them completely off; envisioning herself mummified under multiple layers, wrapped and trapped like a neat little package of meat. The miracle is that Deb ever let this crazy kid within a country mile of her, ever again.

No wonder she likes Dexter so goddamn much.

"I can't stay for Astor." Dana's solemn presentation is enough of a warning sign. But her next words are like an ice cube down the windpipe.

"I came for you." 

Deb takes a step back. Actually puts her hand on her gun.

"Sorry." Dana shakes her head, looking plaintive. "Can we start over?"

Deb pauses, then nods. "Skip the hi shit."

Her hand isn't moving. It stays right where it is, using her left to unlock the door. She's about to say _after you_ when Dana climbs to her feet and enters ahead of her, without a word.

"I know you can't read my mind." Deb stays at a distance. "But you are one creepy ass little girl."

"I know." Dana sits down on the couch, flashing a smile. "I'm a creep motherfucker."

Deb's about to go for a beer. Then she remembers she still has to go out and deal with Dexter.

"Speaking of creep motherfuckers." Deb actually doesn't sound too pissed off at the universe. "You hear anything from my douchebag brother?"

Dana offers a vague shrug. "I know things."

"You mean what Astor knows." Deb still can't believe this shit. It seems like the worst invasion of privacy she can imagine for hundreds of girls across the globe. At least the dead aren't around to be embarrassed.

Or maybe they are. After the upheaval of the last few months, she's ready to believe in leprechauns. At the very least, the dead have found a speaker; their unquiet spirits given new life in Dana's fragmented mind.

"I didn't come for that." Dana sits up, somehow looking even more serious. "I came for Faith. And you."

Deb doesn't like the sound of that. "Do I have a choice?"

"You need to know. She knows -- you need to know." Dana's sigh is riddled with frustration. "But she can't. Can't find words."

"Elephant in the room," Deb mutters. She turns abruptly. "Does she know --"

"That I'm here?" Dana shakes her head. "Oh, no. This is all me." A resigned and weary smile flickers across her face. "All on me."

"Then maybe you shouldn't." Deb's voice sounds hollow in her ears. "It's her story."

"You need to know." And everything about Dana changes, save her outward appearance. Posture and body language; the soft Californian accent morphing into a lazy Boston drawl. "Right now."

Deb's frozen to the spot. Every other channeling of past and present has been transitory. A flashing moment, gone in the blink of an eye. This already looks different. As if Dana has dredged up everything in her that makes up someone else, in order to become that person. As far as humanly possible.

"Sorry, babe." Dana's voice is affectionate, and full of regret. "But you need to hear this."

"Faith." The name feels unnatural coming out of Deb's mouth. As unnatural as the woman she actually thinks she loves, coming out of that one.

"Won't take long." Dana sounds formal to the point of grave. "It's a short story. About a harmless little old professor. Named Lester."

She utters the name with profound bitterness. Deb can feel the chill in her stomach spreading outward. And not from the creepy little girl.

"I murdered that guy. Straight up, in the first fucking degree." Dana's every word is rich with loathing, her expression as though as she wants to crawl out of her own skin. "Told him to turn around. And the only good part was I told him the truth. I made it quick."

Deb is not going to open her mouth. Not until this is over. She's not sure she can breathe.

"And you know what I did it for?" Dana's sour chuckle barely qualifies as a laugh. "Go ahead. Guess."

Deb leans on the kitchen counter for support. She hasn't heard much of her girlfriend's history only because the Slayer tends to stick to brief and sometimes cryptic mentions of her past. Generally, Faith isn't prone to going on long conversational tangents about herself. Apparently she only does that with Dexter. Fucking douchebag gets all the murder chicks.

She swallows the lump in her throat. "For money?"

It's a safe answer. And the little Faith has mentioned of her childhood doesn't strike Deb as puppies and rainbows. Who the hell makes tomato soup with ketchup and water?

"Money." Dana nods. Her upper lip curls in a sneer, her breathing growing deeper as she holds Deb's gaze. "And my own apartment. With a stereo. And a Playstation."

Deb gapes. "Why --"

"I was eighteen." Dana makes it sound obvious. "But I didn't think I was gonna live forever. I just wanted to die pretty." A bitter, humourless laugh. "After I took everyone else out."

Knowing Faith even as incompletely as Deb does, that sounds about right.

"But if you're talking big picture? All so this lifetime local politician can turn himself into a giant snake demon and rule the fucking world. And I get to keep the apartment." Dana chuckles. "How do you like them apples?"

"I --" Deb can't lie. "I don't know what to say."

"Eh." Faith -- _fucking hell_ \-- is smiling again, Dana's dimples barely visible. "I was expecting something with a lot more swears."

"Fuck." Deb's hand is over her mouth again. "You're as bad as my fucking brother."

"So in case I had to say it?" The Slayer looks back at her. "That's not me anymore. At least -- I don't want to be that person."

Deb's heart feels erratic. Thumping off beat inside her chest, stumbling as it tries to keep up.

Dana bows her head. When she looks back up, she's once more transformed. Her eyes are kind. The way Deb feels right now, that's all that matters.

"Hi." The smile is crooked, in a subtly different configuration from Faith's cocky and self-assured grin. "I'm the ex."

" _Fuck._ " Deb says it almost in a whisper.

"I know." Dana's mouth twists in a wry grimace. "The lawyers would have a field day. Trust me, I've thought about these things. By the way --"

She stands, poised and graceful, holding out one hand with a hopeful look.

"I'm Buffy."

"Wow." Deb finds her voice. Somehow, for some reason, her paralyzed body is lurching into motion. Crossing the space between them, returning the crazy girl's gesture. Like this is all perfectly natural.

"I know." The handshake is dry and firm. "You haven't even scratched the surface. And yeah -- Dana creeps me out too."

"Jesus!" Deb's not sure how much more she can take. This is like waking up in a plastic cocoon all over again. Then as now, Dana had pushed her to the brink of sanity.

"Because when I look at her -- I feel guilty." Buffy-Dana shakes her head, frowning as she pushes dark curls out of her eyes. "Not for the man who hurt her. For how we failed her."

"How --" Deb tries to recall the vague and scattered details she's heard from various sources. "What else could you have done?"

"We could have found her sooner?" Another rueful chuckle. "It was almost too late. And she still left bodies behind. But my ex --" This time it's a heavy sigh. "Both my exes -- had to go and butt in."

One of these Deb knows a little. The one Faith had actually talked about, in between breakfast bacon and kisses: _You're datin' the first Slayer in history sponsored by a vampire._

"We've been working with her ever since. When she isn't _running away,_ " Buffy concludes, with a sarcastic roll of Dana's eyes. "And yeah. Faith did that."

Deb exhales as she manages to sit down without falling. Dana's already going over to the sink, getting a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water.

"Here." The concern is practiced, but no less warm. Deb accepts the glass, barely able to hold on.

"She hurt a lot of people." Buffy-Dana waits for her to take a sip of water, holding Deb's gaze. "She almost killed more than one of my friends." Her voice becomes very quiet. "She hurt me."

Deb takes a tiny sip. She can't look away from this freaky possession shit. Or whatever you want to call it. 

"And I thought I could never forgive her." A nod, and a shrug. "But I did."

"How --" Deb forces the words out. "How real is this? How real are _you?_ "

"As real as it gets." Buffy-Dana reaches down and pats Deb on the knee. "But I think we have one more party to hear from."

She's wondering who it can be. Right before it happens.

"Hi, Aunt Deb."

The smile is weaker. Bashful, as if Dana knows just how preposterous it's all become.

"I love Dexter." The words tumble from Dana's lips. Tripping over her tongue, as if eager to escape. "I know he's --" A helpless shrug. "Not all there."

Deb's holding her breath.

"But he's my dad."

She realizes she's still holding it. Until the Slayer bows once more, holding one hand to her forehead as if in pain.

"Sorry," Dana whispers. "I don't like to do that."

Deb can see why. She's not sure how long it'll take to sweep up the shards of her broken mind.

"But you had to know." Dana looks appropriately sober as she holds out one hand, helping Deb stand on shaky legs. "And I have to go now."

Deb manages a chuckle. "So soon?"

"But you don't have to hug me." Dana's sad smile paints a bleak picture. Her eyes widen as Deb steps forward, wrapping her in a crushing embrace.

"It wasn't fun," Deb breathes into her ear. "But thanks."

Dana returns the pressure. Even holding back her Slayer strength, it's enough to make Deb grunt.

"Fuck," Deb mutters. "Do that again." 

"Hm?" Dana pauses, uncertain.

"You just cracked my back." Deb sounds like she'd kill to repeat the experience.

"Hmph." Dana steps back with a mischeivous grin. "Ask your girlfriend."

"Bitch." Deb smiles back, but inside she's thinking. About how likely it seems that Faith will react kindly to her trusted apprentice going around behind her back. Especially on such an intimate subject.

She manages a hopeful smile. "Any parting advice?"

Dana thinks, then grimaces. "I hope it works out."

"Do you think it will?" Part of her is already sorry she asked.

"She wants to." Dana shrugs. "That's all I know."

Deb shrugs back. "Want's not enough."

Dana smiles, sardonic and dry.

"Tell me about it."

  


* * *

  


Rita's head has been spinning. So much the last few days, it's a miracle she hasn't gone into orbit. But ever since waking from this last foray into the land of unconsciousness, she's been out of her mind. Shut down in whiteout conditions, shaking and sick with adrenaline.

She's finally starting to calm down, mostly because Dexter has gone back downstairs. But it's only making it worse. Making it ever more likely that she'll humiliate herself in some unchecked paroxysm of emotion.

Because this Dexter seems more than too good to be true.

Her racing thoughts still mostly revolve around escape. On finding Quinn; anyone at all who can help her deal with this lunacy. Except the more these crazy people show her, the more Rita feels it all spiralling beyond her ability to deal with or comprehend.

And yet every time she thinks of trusting him, her mind slams shut again. No matter how sincere he seems. _Because_ he seems, so very much. And Astor --

"Is --" Rita swallows. Her throat is dry. There's half a bottle of water left, and yet she can't look away from this gentle woman with a monster's face. Who bathed her; defended her from yet another attacker. Some strange bandit in a mask and a construction helmet.

"Is my daughter --" She almost can't bring herself to say it. "Like you?"

Lumen looks puzzled, then taken aback.

"No." Lumen shakes her head firmly. "No, she's --" A rueful chuckle. "Not a vampire."

Rita stares down at her ankle bracelet. It looks like something out of a sex shop. Not that she's ever been in one. A rubberized bike lock chain links it to the large post in the center of the attic. It would take a while to saw through, even if she had tools. Probably make a lot of noise.

"Then --" Rita forces herself to take another drink. "What is she?"

"Where do I begin?" Lumen chuckles. Her face blurs back to human. Rita still can't look away. It's not that the other woman is sublimely beautiful. But her bearing, the quiet strength in her eyes, all speak to something more than any supernatural strength.

"You should ask her." Lumen sighs, the wordless lament of the eternal stepmother. "Want me to see if she'll come up?"

This strikes Rita as the very definition of a bad idea. But she's already been closer to death than to her own family. And on more than one occasion.

"All right."

She remembers her children. Crushed by the unveiling of their stepfather's artfully hidden evil; driven further inward than ever before, to where Rita despaired that they would ever recover.

She still doesn't know where this Cody is. But he's here somewhere. And he looked so happy.

Astor is a different story. Those thin and immature limbs had brought Rita to her knees with the merest effort, squeezing all the air from her lungs. Her ribs still feel bruised from that crushing embrace.

A squeak comes from the hinges as the heavy door rises like a feather. Astor's carrying a plate in one hand, full of some sort of homemade steamy goodness.

"Hey."

Her daughter's twin at least sounds less enraged. Rita watches as the girl kneels and shuts the door, reaches over to set the plate in front of her.

"Hello." Rita thinks she didn't sound too weak. She looks at the plate. Lots of dairy and starch. And two forks.

"Lumen made ham and cheesy potatoes." Astor sounds indifferent, begrudging the slightest compliment. "I already ate. But I'll take a bite, if you think it's poisoned."

"Maybe in a little bit." Rita's stomach still feels like it's slowly tying itself into a fractal of knots. It does smell good. But right now, she doesn't even feel strong enough to chew.

And speaking of strong.

"Lumen said I should ask you." Rita tries to make it not sound horrible. But even muted, her fear still overwhelms everything else. "What are you?"

Astor lets out a tiny snort and looks up from staring at the floor. She sits with one leg tucked underneath, hands folded over her knee.

"Into every generation she is born." Astor sits up straighter, looks Rita right in the eye. She sounds like she's reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. Or reading from some great historical document.

"One girl in all the world. A Chosen One." A little smile creeps over Astor's face and vanishes. Still, she never breaks stride. "She alone will have the strength, the skill. To stand against the vampires."

Astor reaches into the front of her overalls. As if by magic, there's a rude length of pointy wood in her hand.

"The demons."

Astor holds out the stake, hilt first. Rita can feel her hand tremble as she accepts it. The hand whittled surface is rough against her skin.

"And the forces of darkness."

It has to be a joke. And yet Astor sounds completely serious.

"I'm the Slayer."

If her head truly refuses to stop spinning, one would hope it might at least slow down. Rita stares back, trying to absorb this fresh atrocity. It only leaves her feeling more lost. This Astor doesn't just know about Dexter's bloodshed -- she revels in it. Has personal hands on experience. But the craziest thing is the realization that if this girl wanted to, she could reduce Dexter to a pile of grit and paste. Without breaking a sweat.

Rita can't wrap her head around it.

Even if they're telling the truth.

She hands the stake back with a shudder. "Where's Harrison?"

"He's sleeping in my room." Astor looks mildly revolted by something else entirely. Rita's not sure how closely related, but apparently it's not worth discussing. "Dexter said we might want to move when he gets bigger."

"I'm surprised you're still here." Rita watches carefully, gathering all that remains of her own daring. "Considering what happened."

Astor swallows and looks away. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry." It seems more ridiculous than anything so far. But Rita still requires more reassurance. "Where's Cody?"

"Oh!" Astor sits up. Her maudlin mood is gone, instantly converted to barely contained excitement. "This is so funny! You've gotta see this!"

Rita watches with growing uneasiness as the girl reaches into her front pocket, producing a perfectly ordinary cell phone. Maybe a newer model than Rita's used to.

"I _know_ Faith sent me a copy of the whole thing." Astor squints and scrolls, looking mildly frustrated. "Okay -- there."

She scoots a little closer and reaches out. Rita slowly accepts the phone, holding it up with a frown as she tries to identify the still picture on the screen.

"Turn it sideways," Astor says. "Other way. Now hit that button in the middle --"

Rita stares at the unfolding action. Snipers, overlooking her son's elementary school. With scaly skin and claws for trigger fingers. And whoever's watching them isn't doing a thing. Just sitting there --

She jumps as the phone vibrates with noise. Her eyes widen at the sight of a massive fireball. And even more at the smoking, groaning bodies left in its wake.

"See?" Astor looks smug, trying to appear mature. It doesn't help that she's trying to suppress a maniacal grin. "Nobody messes with my brother."

She hadn't known how it could get worse. Rita stares at her daughter, beautiful and strong.

"This is insane." Her voice trembles as she says it. "I don't know what that man has done to you --"

"Shut up."

Astor snatches the phone away, faster than Rita can see. 

"You don't know shit about Dexter." The curse flies from Astor's lips like a glob of spittle. "And until you do? You don't get to have an opinion."

"He is a serial killer!" Rita can't stop herself from shouting as she jerks against the chain. "Everything he says? Is a fucking lie --"

"No!" Astor kneels and grabs her robe, hauling Rita off of the floor. "He is good! And you don't fucking care because you're gone, you --"

Her hands tremble as Rita stares up in horror. Astor's face is contorted with rage, inexorably twisting into something else.

"Because you died, Mom! Because you _died!_ "

Stars of pain explode. The back of her head slams into the post.

Astor is climbing to her feet. Turning and grabbing the door, flinging it open to slam onto the floor with an impact that shakes the entire house. Rita can only stare as the girl stumbles down the stairs and disappears, sobbing her heart out.

She still doesn't know what to believe. Or who to trust. But Rita can't deny the ache in her heart at the sight of all that pain.

She'd have to be dead.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh God no. An unproductive phone call. Discussions of trust and heartache. A meal, and memories. More male bonding, across the generations. And OH JOHN RINGO NO.

In the last six hours, Owen has consumed half a bottle of liquid antacid. It's thick as motor oil, a bright and shocking pink. Combined with the aspirin, the near complete lack of solid food since that pulled pork sandwich, he's nearly thrown up in his car twice since leaving the park.

Any good will he might have had with Quinn has been burned twice over. Owen can't imagine anything serious coming of his vague ramblings. No cop in their right mind would give this a second look.

Which is why he's decided on this final effort. One last-ditch attempt to find a kindred spirit among the ranks of the authorities.

"I need someone who specializes in..." Owen tries to gauge the tolerance of the desk sergeant on duty. "Unusual cases."

The officer frowns. "You mean like sex stuff?"

"I mean --" Owen's on the verge of giving up when a memory surfaces. The one time he'd smoked dope, in college. At a gathering full of friends where they all sat around and stuffed themselves on junk food. And they watched some weird TV show. About bizarre inexplicable happenings, and the FBI agents assigned to the case.

"Like X-Files." Owen nods, doing his best to look normal. "Seriously. I don't want to bother anyone with this. But I need to talk to someone."

"So X stuff instead of sex stuff, huh?" The officer chuckles and picks up his phone. "I still think I got your man."

  


* * *

  


"How's your burger?"

"Good." It's Cody's second. He doesn't want to look greedy. Nathan's dad works in an office but has the build of a sprinter; lean yet muscled, a bigger version of his son. Nathan says his name is Bill. Nathan's dad hadn't told Cody to call him that. But he seems nice enough. None of that trying to be best pals, or bending over backward. A friendly normal guy. Again, just like his son. 

"We got plenty of fixings, so help yourself." Nathan's dad already has a plate fully loaded. He's sitting at the table under their tree in the back yard, more intent on demolishing his dinner than paying much attention to what the boys are eating.

Cody thinks he could load up on pudding cake, pull out half the contents of that industrial thick foil pan and no one would bat an eye. Except every time he starts to relax and have fun, he sees the face of scary Lumen in his head: Glowing in the soft light of a candle, as she tells Cody the halting tale of a broken knight. And a valiant maiden who fought by his side.

Nathan himself remains chock full of energy, constantly engaged in some form of motion. The random cartwheels don't strike Cody as odd. But then there's the eating with his right hand while repeatedly throwing a ball in the air -- as far as possible, to the exact same height every time -- and catching it without moving his hand. Or even looking. It's taking him twice as long to eat due to repeated drops and resets, but Nathan doesn't appear to mind.

Cody has to ask. "What are you doing?"

"I'm learning to juggle." Nathan moves his hand farther out, almost missing the catch. "This is step two."

Apparently learning to juggle requires more dedication than he thought. Cody glances over at the table. Nathan's dad is spreading potato salad over a double-decker cheeseburger, humming under his breath.

"Can you stay over?" Nathan looks up from his plate. A smear of mustard runs over his lip like a mustache. "I'm sick of my sister."

Cody ponders. "Is she not cool?"

"Big time." Nathan makes a squinchy face. "I got a telescope for my birthday and she called me a peeper."

"What's that mean?" It makes Cody think of baby birds.

"She thinks I want to see her naked." Nathan shudders, envisioning a fate worse than death.

Cody doesn't ask why. His brain is following a vague train of association wherein they end up spying on Astor and seeing a vampire, or something worse.

Nathan is cool, and probably better at fighting vampires than he is. But the idea of allowing his new best friend to get dragged into this mess fills Cody with something beyond fear. It feels like it might be bravery. Whatever it is, he can't let that happen.

"You see that guy hanging around?" Nathan looks more serious. "Blonde hair, glasses? Sometimes no glasses? Last few days?"

"No." Cody frowns, trying to remember.

"He's a creep. So if he tries to talk to you, just go inside." Nathan doesn't look vampire-level worried, but he's clearly trying to look out for his little buddy. "Like if you want? Just walk into our house. That way he doesn't know where you live."

"Okay." Cody looks at his phone. "I need to make a call."

"Okay." Nathan shrugs this away. "Go ahead."

"I mean --" Cody struggles with his formulation. "A private call."

Nathan looks impressed. "You want to use the tool shed?"

Nathan's dad doesn't look up from his plate as they pass by the table. "Put stuff back if you take it out."

"Okay." Nathan rolls his eyes at Cody as he wiggles the slightly rusty door free from its stuck position. "Go ahead."

The shed is tiny. It smells like oil, with a little bit of gas. Cody tries not to breathe too deep as he pokes one on his speed dial; tries not to fidget as the number of rings goes on, and on. Finally there's the click of a voicemail, and Cody hangs up before he can hear the recorded voice of Astor telling him to leave a message. _Or don't._

Maybe they're eating dinner too, Cody thinks as he clumsily shuts the door of the shed. Maybe they're all sitting around the table, having a good time without him. Suddenly his burger isn't sitting so well.

He looks over at Nathan, trying not to sound like a baby. "You think I can spend the night?"

"Wait 'til my dad has his digestive." Nathan nods at his father's partially demolished dinner, still being consumed. Cody doesn't know how someone that size can eat that much.

He'll try Astor again. In a half hour. Twenty minutes.

Maybe fifteen.

  


* * *

  


I already know it isn't going well up there. Not when I'm cringing at the sound of raised voices, checking out the window to be sure Cody hasn't heard anything that might bring him running. But the boom of the attic door sends me about an inch out of my seat. Astor stumbles down the stairs, slamming into the wall in her haste, flying past me before I can move.

"Astor!" I look outside again, then turn and follow. She's standing in the middle of her room with her back to me, cobwebs in her hair, shoulders hitching with sobs as she struggles to get her breathing under control. 

I try to sound calm. "What happened."

"She died." Astor sounds like she's just realizing it. "Oh, God..."

"Astor. It's okay." I take a step forward, stop with my hand outstretched. "I'm here."

An extra loud sniffle. Astor bows her head, rolls it with a shudder like she's cracking her neck.

"I'm okay." A slight waver of emotion, as she angrily wipes at her face with her sleeve. "I'll be fine."

"I would give you a minute," I say. "But I think we need to talk."

Her shoulders slump in a gesture of defeat. "Figures." 

"Not you," I clarify. "About her."

Astor turns around, looking confused. "So go talk to her."

"I mean we need to talk. About her." This won't be easy. "You want to sit down?"

"No." Astor glares at me for a moment before walking over to her bed, plopping down on the edge with a bounce and a decidedly disgruntled look.

"I want to take that chain off of her," I say. Astor looks over at me, ready to argue. 

"I'm not going to." I shake my head. "Not yet."

I'm still not sure I want to do this.

"And I'm not saying this household is going to start voting on everything. But you and I need to be on the same page." I sit down next to her, at a respectful distance. "And there's still a lot we don't know. About her -- about everything."

Astor's reluctant nod tells me I'm getting through. She notices a cobweb in her hair, looking irritated as she brushes it out.

"If push comes to shove? We don't know if she'll come down on our side." I try not to be the voice of doom. "Right now, the odds don't look good."

"But it's her." Astor's face is haggard and drawn, her eyes brimming with unspoken pain. "Isn't it?"

"I guess it is," I say. "And...it isn't. Somehow."

"I wish Faith was here." Astor sounds forlorn, lost and small again. "Or Buffy."

"The important thing?" I make sure I have her attention. "We have to keep this from your brother. Until they're ready for it."

Astor's skepticism knows no bounds. "You think they ever will be?"

"I hope so." I've always struggled with having emotions. Explaining them is a whole new level. But when Darla had tried to kill me -- when the original Rita had come back to us from beyond the grave, however briefly -- it had made me think at the time that I wished Cody could have this same opportunity. To see and say goodbye to his mother, however temporarily it might reopen the wound.

Except when it comes to emotions, I'm not even an amateur. And maybe this will only result in more pain.

For everyone concerned.

  


* * *

  


The plate is still warm. Not much, but enough. Rita tries not to grimace as she raises the fork to her lips. But if they were going to drug her, they'd have shot her up again with Dexter's favorite tranquilizer. And everything that's happened since her most recent awakening only makes it more plausible she's already been dosed. It's like some bad acid trip from a movie. Her life has been one non-stop tragedy ever since that night.

It's a good thing she didn't wake up a few minutes earlier, when Lumen was still giving her a bath. Hard to imagine what might have freaked her out more than waking up in the room where she was almost murdered. The room where she lost what was left of her innocence.

The food is good. Not too bland. Just enough to calm the nervous spasms in her gut, settle a soothing blanket of carbohydrate over the turbulence of whirling thoughts.

Except now that she's thought about it, that night is coming back. It never goes away. Not on the best of days.

Not ever again.

  


* * *

  


_She was such a dope._

_She'd forgotten her ID. No way she could fly without it, and so of course Rita had to come back home. She'd left Dexter a loving message on his voicemail, placed Harrison on the coffee table in the living room. Already she knew right where it was. She was just standing there collecting her thoughts, planning her next move._

_Except that nice old man had come to the door._

_She'd thought nothing of a flat tire. Even the fact that he'd left his phone at home. Only meant to be gone a few minutes, you see. Just need to call triple A. My, you have a lovely home..._

_She can't even remember what first made her feel uneasy. But she knew when she'd realized that her life was about to end. It was the look on his face as he stared at the pictures on their wall. The sound of his voice, as he spoke Dexter's name with a reverent awe._

_He'd turned with a malevolent glare. Stealing her ability to speak. To do anything but back away, as he loomed in her sight like a mountain._

_"I'm also a family man." Arthur's bigger than he looks. His body dwarfs hers as he slowly backs her into the bathroom. Her largest kitchen knife gleams in his hand. She can't even think when he must have picked it up. "So I'll make it quick. For your sake."_

_The crazy thing is how sad he looks. She almost feels sorry for him. If not for the obvious._

_"No time." His eyes never look away as he shuts the door behind him; reaches out and grabs a towel from the rack. "No time to do it right --"_

_His arms encircle her struggling body. He wraps the towel around her mouth, her desperate hands in search of something. A weapon; his face._

_The floor is still wet from when she took a shower, before she left. It's that little bit of moisture that reduces his footing. He stumbles back against the shower stall._

_"Cunt!"_

_She finds her voice. Screaming her lungs out, flailing madly with redoubled efforts. The knife burns across her skin, slicing open her face, her arms as she tries to defend herself._

_Harrison. He's still out there, on the table. Unless he's already dead. And Dexter -- Dexter --_

_A bellow fills the air. An animal roar, as the bathroom door explodes off its hinges._

_Dexter barrels into the room. Rams into Arthur like a charging bull, tearing him loose._

_She's still screaming as the knife falls to the floor. It hits the tile with a clatter, more crimson stains spraying about existing ones in a spiral. She can't breathe as she scrambles back against the wall, her screams little more than panicked gasps and whimpers as blood pulses from the haphazard cuts that cover her arms and legs, her breasts and belly._

_Dexter's roar is unending. Still growing in volume and ferocity as he lifts Arthur into the air, slams him down on the edge of the bathtub with a noise like a gunshot. The sound of the crack makes Rita want to vomit even before the old man's shriek of pain. His shoulder doesn't look right and Dexter is grabbing the fallen knife from where it lies on the floor. Grabbing Arthur's hair and pulling his head back. Putting the tip under his chin --_

_The scream shatters her brain. From herself. From Arthur, as Dexter drives the blade up and all the way into his brain in a single stroke. His legs kick, his body spasms and the smell of feces invades her nostrils. A dark stain is spreading over his trousers as dying eyes gaze up at his assassin._

_Rita stares at the grotesque tableau laid out before her. At Dexter's back, muscles tensed and taut beneath his T-shirt. At the dead body of the man who came to murder her; at the rapidly growing pool of blood forming around them both._

_She's ready to forgive. To somehow put this behind them, even now. For Dexter to tell her it's going to be all right._

_Her heart stops at the sound of his voice. Dead of any emotion but brutal satisfaction._

_"I knew I should have fucking killed you when I had the chance."_

_She's trying to get to her feet. He's turning and his face is a mask of lustful rage. Transforming to tragic realization, as he sees her face._

_She still doesn't remember the next minute. She remembers stumbling down the street with Harrison in her arms, desperately trying to keep her footing. If she falls and hurts him, that'll be the end of her. The lights are coming on and people are in their front yards, gawking away. And all Rita can do is run._

_And cry her eyes out._

  


* * *

  


She remembers looking at the police report later, when they were asking her to confirm the details. From start to finish, from the moment Arthur forced her into the bathroom, the whole bloody incident had taken less than three minutes.

Three minutes that ended her life.

Rita knows she didn't really die that night. No matter what the world might be telling her.

She still can't bring herself to feel grateful.

  


* * *

  


He can still tell himself he's not getting involved. Just driving by on his way home from the park, to see if Deb's made it over yet. But her car is nowhere in sight when Quinn cruises by the Morgan house.

He's ready to drive on by when he sees Cody in back of the house next door, sitting at a picnic table. And he might not have stopped anyway. But the kid looked so lost. Not unhappy or afraid, just staring at the plate of food in front of him while his friend and (Quinn assumes) the friend's dad sit there chowing away.

And Quinn hasn't always been the dashing detective and ladies' man. Why, it might have even been said, once upon a time, that he was moderately unpopular.

He parks in front of the neighbor's place, checking himself in the mirror for basic presentability. Miami Metro must put its best flat feet forward. Then he takes a deep breath and walks up the driveway, resolute in his refusal to even glance in the direction of the Morgan house.

"Hey." Quinn hails Cody, as if he's just spotted him. "Remember me? Joey? I work with your aunt Deb?"

"Hi." Cody has the look of recognition, but that's all. It's not like Quinn was expecting the kid to leap up and run in for a hug. Still, it definitely looks like there's something on his mind.

"Oh, you're a cop?" The man gets to his feet, wiping off with a napkin before reaching out. "Bill Brummer. My boy Nathan."

"Detective." Quinn returns the handshake. "Not the TV kind that makes a lot of money."

Nathan nods, but doesn't look up. He's tossing and catching a ball in his left hand while his right transports food from the plate to his mouth. Quinn's impressed.

"Care for a burger?" Bill indicates the spread on the table. "Plenty to spare."

"Thanks, but I was just looking for Deb." Quinn directs his question to a silent Cody. "You seen her around?"

Cody shakes his head.

"No problem." Quinn shrugs, as if it's no concern. "Let her know I stopped if you see her, okay?"

"Okay." Cody isn't even blinking as he stares up at Quinn. It's disconcerting, to say the least.

"Nice meeting you." Quinn nods to all concerned. "Take care."

He's down the driveway and to the sidewalk when he hears the sound of running feet. Quinn turns to see Cody skidding to a stop in front of him, breathing hard.

"Can I see your badge?"

"Sure." Quinn pulls it out and hands it over. Cody holds it for a long time, staring at the golden shield.

"Nathan said there was this weird guy hanging around." Cody tries to remember the details. "With blonde hair and glasses. Sometimes no glasses." 

It's not much to go on. But it's odd how Quinn can immediately think of someone matching that description. Especially someone he knows has been lurking in the neighborhood the last few days.

He throws out the standard bone. "You want me to keep an eye out?" 

"Yes please." Cody looks over at his own house, then back up at Quinn. "Can you drive by one more time tonight? Just to make sure everything's okay?"

"No problem." Quinn holds out his hand. "Consider it done."

Cody takes it with some hesitation. But his grip becomes slightly more firm as he stares up at Quinn.

"Thank you."

  


* * *

  


Owen tries to ignore the creeping sense of -- well, creepiness. For lack of a better word. It's not his fault. Some people just give off a certain vibe.

"I'm glad they called me in." Masuka grabs a stack of folders from a nearby chair. "Have a seat."

"I appreciate your taking the time to see me." Owen's having even more difficulty than he had with the desk sergeant. Basic statements and questions are off the table until they finish speaking in code, feeling each other out for what they might know.

Except Owen is the one here to find out things. He's the one who needs answers.

"I was attacked." He waits for Masuka to look over at him. "By what looked like a human being."

Masuka frowns.

"With fangs."

That gets more than a frown. What it gets is a blink and a swallow, followed by a slow removal of glasses and a vigorous polishing.

"Okay." Masuka takes a deep breath. "I can tell you there is one other cop in this station who wouldn't laugh you out on your ass for that statement. But she has her hands full right now. And if I bring this to her, she's liable to strangle me to death with my own scrotum."

Owen does not want to be visualizing this.

"But I've been looking around. And I can give you someone." Masuka pulls out his wallet and thumbs through it, pulling out a business card. "Trust me. This guy might be getting up there? But he's the real deal."

The card is worn, plain dull parchment off-white. The fonts are nicer than he's used to; a variety of lettering styles and decorative curlicues that give an antique appearance, without being too elaborate or overly flowery. And the gist of it is quite plain.

**SAINTS PETER AND PAUL  
** **OCA DIOCESE OF THE SOUTH  
** _Father Andrew Cardoza_

Owen's never been closer to God than a Presbyterian Sunday potluck. Anything with the word _orthodox_ feels vaguely primitive. Like some medieval monastery whose inhabitants putter on without regard to the world outside, regarding it with mild pity at best.

He looks up at Masuka. "And you're sure about this?"

Masuka nods. "I'd trust this man with my scrotum."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A more productive but still concerning phone call. Talk with a stranger, and with a sort of stranger. One last chance for the law. Taking the next step. Comparing notes. And seeing something that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware that Missouri is the "Show Me" state.
> 
> * * *

Those two hamburgers are still feeling a little rambunctious. Sort of like they're fighting each other, down there in Cody's stomach. He keeps looking next door. Everything appears quiet. No more strange sounds; no voices yelling.

Of course, appearances can be deceiving. Look at Lumen.

Also, Cody never would have guessed that his new friend was a whiz when it came to video games. Nathan hadn't been lording it over him, but he had to admit he'd been secretly hoping for one thing he could shine at. Now he's hard pressed, fighting to stay neck and neck as they careen down the mountainside in their off-road buggies.

"You suck." Nathan's sister delivers this in passing, on her way back to her room with a plate of pudding cake. Susan is almost as short as Cody, but looks nearly as strong as her brother despite being a whole year younger. She also looks about as mean as Cody's gym teacher. According to Nathan, her appearance is not deceiving.

"You suck cake." Nathan doesn't look away from the television as he rounds a hairpin curve. His entire body leans with the vehicle onscreen, the tip of his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth, clenched between his teeth.

"I sucked the last cake." Susan fires this parting taunt with her plate held high, waiting for some sort of outraged reponse. She doesn't have a lot of patience. Cody tries to ignore her stomping away as he slows down for the hairpin turn.

"Don't slow down!" Nathan comes close to wiping out in his haste to offer helpful advice. "You gotta _fly_ into it!"

Cody does his best, but it's no use. His momentum is going all the wrong way, and if he tries to recover now he'll crash for sure. He lets himself coast over to the side of the road, coming to a stop.

"I still have to call my stepdad." Cody sets down the controller.

"How come you go back and forth?" Nathan zooms over the finish line and turns to him with a frown. "Sometimes he's your dad -- sometimes, he's your stepdad."

"I guess he's kind of both." Cody feels a little pang at the memory of Paul, visiting them at the new house. "My real dad went to prison. He died there."

"Whoa." Nathan is suitably impressed. "Hardcore."

It probably is. It also reminds Cody that his mom is gone. And that his new stepmom is a bloodsucking creature of the night.

"I'll be right back." Cody looks at his discarded controller. "Can you get me to the next stage?"

"Sure." Nathan doesn't hesitate, grabbing it up and resuming his laserlike focus on the screen. "I'll wait for you."

He probably should have said thank you. Cody realizes this as he's walking away, but he doesn't stop. He's hoping the bathroom isn't occupied. The sun's beginning to set, and he doesn't want to go back out to the tool shed.

He's in luck. His hand is shaking as he punches two, the burgers demonstrating renewed interest in convincing his stomach to expel them. But the uproar comes to a halt when Dexter answers on the second ring.

 _"Hey, big guy."_ Dexter sounds completely at ease. It's enough to instantly quell the rising discomfort, or at least bring it back down. _"How was dinner?"_

"Good." Cody wants to talk about the food, but there are more pressing matters at hand. "Is it okay if I spend the night?"

 _"I thought we talked about that."_ Dexter doesn't sound like he's ready to deny the request.

"Nathan's dad already said it's okay." Cody tries not to sound too rushed, but it's getting harder by the moment. "Please?"

A brief pause of Dexter thought. _"Sure."_

Cody can't help being flabbergasted. "Really?"

_"You have him call me and we'll work out the details."_

Again with the agreement. Normally Cody would be ecstatic. Right now, all he can think about is what must be going on over there at his house.

Astor is strong. He hasn't actually seen her perform some feat of superhuman strength. But he's felt that power, and it's made an impression. Strong enough he can't get it out of his head. Any more than he can stop thinking about Lumen, how funny and kind she is despite being pale and scary. Not at all like Lilah, who'd made his mom cry. Plus tried to set him and Astor on fire.

Astor hasn't always been this strong. Or she would have stopped Lilah from doing that. And Astor's not a vampire. He's seen her eating regular food, being out in the sunshine. Holding a cross on a chain as she puts it around his neck.

"I called Astor." Cody struggles for clarity as well as concealment. "She didn't pick up."

 _"She's having girl talk with Lumen."_ Dexter's tone is warm, reassuring. _"You let me know if you ever want to have a guy talk. Okay?"_

Cody's not sure about those prospects. Still, progress has been made.

"Okay."

  


* * *

  


She's not sure how much time has passed. She's been staring at her empty plate, feeling the back of her head throb where it smacked against the post. The cuff around her ankle is starting to itch.

She hears footsteps on the stairs. The heavy tread sounds like an adult. As the hinges squeak and the door rises up, it turns out to be Lumen.

"Need to use the bathroom?"

"Not right now." Rita's still not sure about consciously setting foot in that particular room of this house, ever again. From what she's seen in her brief and panicked time awake downstairs, everything is exactly the same. All the old pictures still in place, as if she'd never left. Never been murdered a few feet away from that stunning smile in its tasteful faux silver frame.

"Kind of a neat little bonus of being a vampire." Lumen stoops to collect the plate, keeping a careful distance. "One of those things you never think about."

"Wait --" Rita swallows her own uncertainty as she stares up into questioning eyes. "Please. Sit down."

Lumen frowns. Then she nods, slowly sinking once more into a cross-legged pose.

"I need to know." Rita gingerly shifts her own position. The muscles in her legs feel sore from lack of use. "How did --"

"How did I meet Dexter?"

Apparently her pause was just long enough.

"Yes. I'm just --" Rita tries to make sense of the nonsensical. "Have you always been --"

"Oh!" Lumen laughs. "You mean a vampire."

"It still sounds awfully silly when you say it out loud." Rita manages a shaky smile.

"Well, no. I wouldn't _always_ have been." Lumen's own smile seems like an apology for possibly making Rita sound slow-witted. "But I was human. When he and I... met."

Rita measures her thoughts to the microgram. "I couldn't help noticing that's an awfully long pause."

Lumen is silent again. That quiet inner strength that before was so obvious to Rita seems abruptly fled; the vampire's eyes like bombed and blasted craters on the field of battle, witness to unfathomable carnage.

"It was right after he lost you. I was..." Lumen gazes up at the rafters. "What I went through -- the old me wouldn't have wished that on anyone."

Both the words and the delivery are enough to make Rita's skin crawl. Either one on their own would be enough.

"And I thought I wanted to die. But Dexter saved me." Lumen laughs and shakes her head. "He didn't mean to. And it was...rough. At first. But we ended up helping each other."

Rita's not entirely sure she wants to know what that means. Regardless, she wouldn't dream of interrupting this train of thought.

"And then I tried to go back home. But it didn't work out. I was too..." Lumen makes a vague gesture. "Changed."

"But not a vampire." Rita feels stupid even asking. Part of why it's not a question.

"So I came back." Lumen sighs again. It's the first time Rita's realized how incongruous it ought to be for a vampire to respire. "And things had gotten even stranger. But there was nowhere else I wanted to be. And then..."

Her heart shudders at the sight. The other woman's face morphs into a demonic mask, doubly incongruous for the resigned expression.

"This happened." Lumen shrugs as her face returns to normal. Her features are impassive, but there seems to be just a shade of hostility as she continues to gaze at Rita.

"I don't want to talk about it. Not the vampire thing," Lumen clarifies with a frown. "The other. But you can ask me anything."

"Anything." Rita echoes the word, testing it on her tongue. Lumen looks at least slightly worried.

"I am curious. But if you don't want to talk about it?" Rita nods. "I won't ask."

Lumen returns the nod. "Thank you." 

"Why --" Rita has altogether too many questions that start out like this. "Why do you stay with him?"

Lumen looks surprised, then laughs. Like she can't believe she got one this trivial.

"I love him. In his way --" Lumen shrugs. "I know he loves me. Maybe not like he did you --"

The sound that comes out of Rita seems completely involuntary, between a laugh and a scoff.

"No." And now Lumen looks angry.

"I never met you. And I know he loved you. He still does." Lumen leans forward, placing extra forcefulness on her words. "Believe it."

Rita doesn't know how to respond. Or rather, she can't bring herself to give that statement the response it deserves. Lumen rises without another word, plate in hand, giving Rita one last resentment-filled look before hauling up the door and taking her leave.

"Wait --" Another voice on the stairs. Rita hears a momentary scuffling for position before Astor appears. The girl who could be her daughter still looks deeply angry, but at the same time somewhat mollified. Astor's face is freshly scrubbed, her former animation wholly subdued.

Astor looks away as she lowers and shuts the door. "Hey."

"Hello." Rita can't help a flicker of worry. "Are you going to do that again?"

A little chuckle is her only response. More of a snort, really. Rita remembers how badly she'd wanted to strangle her daughter every time Astor made that noise. Now it's killing her to refrain from reaching out and suffocating this strange girl, enveloping her for all eternity in a crushing embrace.

"No." Astor shakes her head, still avoiding Rita's eyes. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Thank you." Rita tries not to wince as she straightens her back. Her ribs will be bruised at least a few days.

"Both times." Astor finally looks over at her. "And I'm sorry for trying to kill you."

"Well, that's a start." Rita giggles. It comes out sounding crazier than she'd like.

Astor sits down across from her. Rita feels the silence becoming awkward, stretching out into distinctly uncomfortable territory.

"When I died." It still sounds exactly how she might expect it to sound in her ears. But with the unspoken taboo now violated, the remainder of this ridiculous proposal seems easier for Rita to speak aloud. "Did someone make me a vampire?"

Astor frowns, then blinks as her eyes widen.

Rita continues, doggedly pursuing any possible trail. "Is that why you --"

"Not exactly." Astor's looking frustrated again, if less dramatic. "It's --"

"Complicated?" Rita can't help a smile. "I'll bet you say that a lot."

  


* * *

  


"You don't understand." Owen feels he's doing an unusually excellent job remaining calm. Unfortunately, it's not doing any good. "I am giving you one last --"

 _"No, Mister Hanson. You don't get it."_ Quinn sounds irate enough to crawl through the phone to get at him. _"I gave your bullshit to someone. Someone I trust. And if there's anything more than bullshit, we'll find it. So if I hear about you doing anything other sitting the fuck back, letting the police do their job, and staying the fuck away from the Morgan house? You and me are gonna have more than words."_

"I came to you for help." Owen's ears are burning as he gives it one last college try. "Not to get you killed."

 _"It's in the fuckin' job description."_ Quinn sighs. _"Miami Metro could use a lot of things. More money. But what we don't need is some loose cannon running around playing Death Wish."_

"Detective --"

 _"Final warning."_ Quinn is the voice of authority that brooks no interference or disobedience. _"Stay within the law. Then it's all good."_

If ever a declaration were in need of additional clauses to provide nuance, it seems like this more than qualifies.

"I will." Owen swallows. "Thank you."

He bows his head, clutching the phone as he readies himself. Once again it's time to risk additional exposure. Bring yet more people in on the secret.

Except these people are supposedly some of the few who already know about vampires. Or whatever the hell is going on.

Owen takes a very deep breath. Perhaps the deepest he's ever taken, as he looks at the business card in his hand.

He had once sworn to Lumen that he would never love anyone else. Not like he did her. He only hopes there's more than one way.

More than one way she can still be saved.

"Father Cardoza, please." He stares up at an orange and purple sky, watching the sun begin to sink below the horizon. "It's an emergency."

  


* * *

  


"And I told her it wasn't her. That I liked her a lot." From the sound of it, Astor's recollection of her discomfort is approaching the original. "That was bad enough. But when I said I wasn't sure?"

Rita can't recall herself just how they ended up here. And it's not the most obvious aspects of her daughter's life that trouble her. Nor the realizaton that at some point over the last fifteen minutes she has indeed begun to think of this Astor in precisely those terms.

"That was, like -- the crime of the century!" Astor throws up both hands in frustration. "I had to go talk to someone to get her to leave me alone!"

"To be fair? You're going to run into people like that all over." Rita sounds overly fatalistic even to her own ears. "I mean -- that's just how the world is."

"So it was like all of us who weren't interested, or just weren't sure -- we had to form a club." Astor rolls her eyes. "We never did come up with a name."

"Labels can be limiting." She should know. Rita's having trouble keeping her motherly advice from being peppered with random casual endearments. No matter how well they might be getting along, things like _sweetie_ don't seem all that appropriate to her. Especially having grown up without the sort of female relatives who use that sort of talk with everyone, regardless of age or sex.

"And some of the girls are so casual about it. Like it's nothing." Astor's irritation borders on revulsion. "Like, just because they can't get pregnant -- it's totally safe."

"Well, it sounds to me like you did the right thing." Rita goes over the incident in her head. "You were polite. You stood your ground. And I think you did it for the right reason." 

Astor frowns, looking uncertain. "What's that?"

"Because you're right." Rita can feel her treacherous emotions teetering on the brink of catastrophe. With an effort, she forces them into submission. "It's not nothing. It's everything. And if you want to save that for someone you love, more than anyone -- there is nothing wrong with that. And don't you ever let anyone tell you different."

Astor looks down at her hands, seeming more uncomfortable than before. 

"Sorry." Rita chuckles at the absurdity of it all. "My daughter... doesn't ask me about these things."

The change in her voice causes Astor to look back up.

"In fact -- I can't remember the last time we talked. " Rita tries to smile, but it's not working. "That didn't end up screaming." 

Astor swallows. Rita's about to apologize for too much information.

"I smoke pot." Astor rushes on, seeing her expression. "Not all the time. Or when I'm really mad, or depressed. Just when I'm feeling really good anyway. Or just a little down."

Rita knows that her mouth is open. She's just not sure what she was about to say. Maybe she ought to have been more grateful to get stuck discussing teenage hormones.

From the closed door in the attic floor comes voices, raised in volume and emotion. Two female, both angry; one male, demanding diplomacy. Astor rises with a look of annoyance, turns and lifts the door, taking a deep breath.

_"QUIET DOWN!"_

Rita's ears are ringing. Still, she thinks she can hear a stunned silence.

From below, Dexter clears his throat. "Your aunt's here."

"I know." Astor still sounds annoyed. "Can she come down yet?"

  


* * *

  


Deb still has no idea what's going on. But when Astor comes down the attic stairs leading a Rita clone on a chain like a leash, it's more than a bit fucked up. Even after she sees it's not some crazed bondage sex game, that Astor is trying to assist her, being very gentle and solicitous. Dexter and Lumen don't seem at all surprised, and it's still pretty fucked up. Even for this family.

She's ready to have this Rita run into her arms, beg and plead to be saved from these monsters. It's when the other woman spots Deb that her reaction becomes even more puzzling. Could be the shot Deb took at her when they first met. But she'd definitely been expecting something a little more positive.

"Hey. What's wrong?" Deb frowns, ducking her head, trying to capture the other woman's gaze. "Why won't you look at me?"

Wrong-Rita shakes her head. Deb thinks she's about to cry.

"What did you fucks do to her?" Deb whirls about with a look of promised retribution.

Because she's remembering the real first time she saw those eyes. She'd responded to a domestic. Figured she'd have to talk some drunk loser down off his high horse. Instead she'd cuffed him and slammed his head into the hood of her car, shoved him into the back before she could succumb to the urge to break out the baton. Then she forgot all about him as she walked back inside. Trying not to wince as she dabbed at that swollen and bleeding face; doing her best until the ambulance arrived, talking all the while to keep the victim conscious.

 _Rita,_ the woman had managed, through bloody lips. _I'm Rita._

Except there's something off about this Rita's reaction to her presence. It's not like you'd expect from a dear friend who thought you were dead, only to find out otherwise. Or maybe it is. All Deb knows is that it won't be simple. Lately, nothing is.

"Shut up!" Astor's yell overpowers the room. All the adults stare at her, in varying degrees of shock.

Rita's first to speak. "That's not very nice."

"This is reminding me of something." Astor voice drops to a mutter as she stares at nothing, lightly punching her fist into her palm. "Work, brain! Work --"

"I would have told you sooner." Dexter looks like a deer trapped in the headlights. "There were a lot of factors at play --"

"Astor's right. Shut up." Deb turns back to her niece. "You were saying?"

Astor's face lights up as she pulls out her cell phone.

"Andrew? Shut up." Astor turns her back on the others, covering her open ear with her free hand. "What was that old movie you made us watch? When I was there last month?"

"You?" Deb directs this at her brother. "Are a fucknut."

"Some of this is on me," Lumen insists. "I admit I could have handled things better --"

"QUIET!" Astor's stuffing her phone back in her pocket. "Is that better than shut up?"

"Yes." Rita's hasty interruption precludes a more hostile response. "Did you find out something?"

"Two words."

Astor holds up two fingers in a peace sign.

"Bearded Spock."

  


* * *

  


"Tea, my son?"

"I don't think --"

"Tea is soothing." The padre beckons to his assistant, a strapping younger man who reminds Owen of his uncle. "You look very tense."

He swallows at the idea of telling his story in any greater detail. Already the nuances are fading in his memory, airbrushed out by the shock of adrenaline. He thinks this will be the final straw. The moment he takes the rest of his money, his aching body and his tormented soul, and drives back to Minnesota as slowly as possible. Maybe stop and see the sights.

But Father Cardoza seems exactly as he appears. He's eighty-five, so he says, with a military haircut the color of snow. Like all good priests, he has a way about him. Before Owen knows it, he's pouring his guts out to a man he most likely would have protested against in college. The assistant keeps their teacups full with a stoicism that would challenge a Buckingham guard.

"And her face -- that's when it..." He struggles again for the words. 

"Transformed?" Cardoza offers this suggestion as nothing more. "Into something perhaps, shall we say... animalistic? More fearsome?"

Owen nods, gathering his wits and thoughts.

"I left that woman there." He can't confess any more plainly than that. "And I ran. And the police won't help."

Cardoza nods, fingers steepled before him. 

"But one of them -- a very odd little man -- he sent me to you. And I guess I'm putting myself in your hands." Owen spreads those hands, throwing himself on their mercy. "And in God's."

"Well -- let us not mince words. I believe your story." Cardoza rises from his chair with a grimace. "I have seen too much to pretend these creatures are but figments of imagination. Unfortunately, the flesh is now weak enough to be less help than hindrance."

Owen's disappointment is obvious. Cardoza chuckles, indicating his assistant.

"However, Philip is both willing and able to assist any member of the laity in their civic duty." Cardoza extends a veiny hand to Owen, his grip surprisingly strong. "With him at your side, I would almost feel sorry for any demons in your path."

Philip's hands are enormous. Almost enough to swallow up Owen's, as he stares up at this barn of a man. Mid-thirties at most, brown hair and eyes. Built like the guys who tormented Owen in high school.

"Pleased to meet you." Philip offers a small, sober smile. "Despite the circumstances. Shall we get started?"

Owen's mind is reeling at how quickly it's all moving forward. "Do we have a plan?"

"When it comes to vampires? Most people stick with the tried and true." Philip nods. "Keep technology simple. Cheaper -- less likely to break down in a pinch, when you need it."

Owen nods back, trying to look wise.

"Of course, this is a new century." Philip's smile is looking a little less friendly. "So we do have options."

He could still walk out of here. Forget everything and go home. Call in some anonymous tip that would be sure to get Dexter's house turned upside down.

Owen takes a deep breath.

"Show me."

  


* * *

  


Luckily for all of us past the age of puberty, it doesn't take Astor long to educate the grownups on the basics of dimensional theory. Or as people like Andrew and Vince Masuka refer to it, Alternate Universe. The short version is there are likely a near-infinite number, and under normal circumstances never the twain shall meet. Any time the streams cross -- as Andrew insists on putting it -- is usually bad news at best.

It doesn't even require direct intervention by the Powers. Or as those familiar call them, _the Powers That Be._ Their meddling had made it possible for me to reunite with my Rita for a few precious minutes. And apparently a few short years ago, one of them had nearly ended the world.

"So there's more than one God. And some of them might as well be Satan." Deb looks ready to vomit. "That about cover it?"

Rita -- our guest Rita -- is at least processing this better than anything else we've seen her confronted with. I know the feeling. Once you accept one crazy impossible thing, it's the thin end of the wedge.

"And something had to open up a hole between dimensions for you to come through." Lumen looks appalled. "God, I wonder what happened to me there?"

"Let's try and keep focus," I suggest. "Why is she here?"

"Because someone's trying to mess with us?" Astor makes it sound like a sure thing. I'm not as worried about her acting out, but her emotional state is still a concern.

"How about we compare notes?" I say this to Rita as I sit down on the other side of the living room, well out of her personal space. "Find out what else is different."

"You think that'll help?" Deb sounds skeptical as ever.

Rita's still huddled on the couch. I see her glancing down at the cuff around her ankle, the bike chain that leads to the unrelenting grip of Astor's hand.

"I really want to take that off of you," I say. "Can you at least promise me you won't leave? That you'll let us try to figure this out?"

Rita looks even more skeptical than my sister. "You think you can."

"I'm no expert. But we've got them on speed dial." I glance over at Astor for confirmation. "If there's a way to get you back to your kids? We'll find it."

Rita doesn't respond. Her gaze flicks around the room, passing rapidly over my sister.

"And the police probably aren't going to be much help," I continue. "I mean -- in a world where vampires are real."

Astor groans, giving me a look of unbridled beseechment. "Does this mean I have to call Andrew again?"

"Try Giles first." I think for a moment. "And keep trying."

"Hey." Deb's voice is uncharacteristically gentle as she tries to get Rita to return her gaze. "Fucknut here has some of that raspberry tea you like. I saw it in the cabinet."

Rita's looking at Deb. From the corner of her eye, but we're getting somewhere.

"I hate to pressure you," I say. "But if you don't want to work with us?"

The fear is back as her attention zeroes in on me. I indicate everyone else in the room, including myself in their number.

"We're still going to help you."

She laughs. So close to crying, as she finally looks at Deb full on.

"What is it?" Deb's insistent tone is verging on what she calls her choking the truth out of someone. Or the shit. Whichever comes first. "Did I die? Because I can fucking take it --"

She grinds to a halt. Rita's hand is over her mouth, her eyes brimming over.

"I died." There's no doubt in Deb's voice. She shakes her head. "And you don't want to tell me. Because --"

"Because it was my fault!"

Rita's tearful outburst leaves the room stunned. I'm not sure if I'm the most heavily hit. It certainly feels like it.

It takes a while. Between tears, general emotion and her obviously choosing to expurgate one or two details due to Astor's presence, the sun is just about down by the time Rita's done with her story. And Deb is definitely sorry she asked.

I find it fascinating.

But it's no picnic.

  


* * *

  


"No!" Nathan snickers. "You're supposed to say: _Can you see Uranus?_ "

"What if I don't want to?" But Cody's giggling anyway.

They're on the little roof above the garage, right outside Nathan's bedroom window. The massive tree between the properties has enough overhang it's like being under a forest canopy, partially sheltered from view even in daylight. It's dark enough now for fireflies. There are tons of them, their soft light pulsing as far as the eye can see.

"Seriously," Nathan says. "My sister's nuts. You can't use a telescope for peeping."

Cody frowns. "Why?"

"Well, not if they're next door. I mean --" Nathan coughs. "They'd have to be really far away."

Cody examines the telescope. It's not much compared to the one at the museum, but it's got serious heft and weight. Definitely no toy.

He tries to envision relative distance. "How far?"

"Like, miles. That's why peepers use binoculars." Nathan fiddles with the instrument, unscrewing a bolt that holds the viewfinder atop the barrel. "Or you can use this part. Like an old time spyglass."

"Cool!" But Cody feels his thrill dampening. His suspicions being vague doesn't make them any less disturbing.

"Dude." Nathan sounds simultaneously annoyed and pitying. "Your sister's room's on the other side."

"Oh." Cody doesn't even like thinking about it. Too much is still uncertain in his mind.

"Take a look." Nathan hands him the viewer, prodding him gently with the end of the miniscope. "You can see the kitchen, and that attic window. That's it."

Cody looks up at the small square of illumination at the top of the house. Dexter must be moving something again. He puts the viewer to his right eye, wondering if he can see what it is.

The shadow that flickers across his vision isn't Dexter. It's not even a man, and it's not Lumen. Or his sister.

Cody's not sure.

But he might have just peed himself.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cody makes plans. Deb is sorry she asked. More plans made, and carried out. A brief discussion of alternative dimensions. And everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

"Dude, it's okay." Nathan's voice is muffled through the bathroom door. "I did the same thing last summer. When I was swinging on a vine, from a tree? And the vine broke?"

Cody stares at the clothes Nathan found for him to wear. They're perfectly clean. Even close to his size; castoffs the older boy had recently outgrown, that the family hasn't yet donated to charity.

His cheeks are still burning as he strips down and throws his own clothes in the tub. But that's not the worst of it. He can't stop going over every bit of the humiliating incident in his head. As well as the unthinkable vision that came before it. He's so distracted, he almost forgets to add a capful of soap.

The light had been behind the figure he'd seen in the attic. So it wasn't like he'd had a clear view. And Cody sees people all the time on TV doing various kinds of freaking out. Other people saying they were drunk, or crazy. He remembers wanting to puke the one time he tried even a tiny sip of Paul's beer.

That leaves crazy. And Cody doesn't think he's crazy.

But how do you know you're not?

"I'm gonna make some hot chocolate." Nathan sounds more hopeful through the door. "You want some?"

"Okay." Cody stares at himself in the mirror. He has to stand on a footstool to see his reflection. At least he's not a vampire.

But he still doesn't know what to do. If he were Nathan, or Astor, he could climb the tree between the houses and onto the roof. Try to get in through the attic window.

Nathan's old jeans are black, not blue. The shirt is red, with a picture of a roaring lion whose flowing mane takes up half the real estate, the rest consumed by its open mouth and teeth. A caption across the bottom in fiery and all uppercase letters proclaims the wearer to be _UNSTOPPABLE_.

Cody almost goes the wrong way when he comes out of the bathroom. Then he remembers that room is Susan's. He wouldn't want her calling him a peeper. His thoughts careen like the contents of a blender as he wanders through the house to the kitchen. Spinning at maximum speed, chopped into ever finer pieces.

"Hey." Nathan looks up from the mug he's stirring.

"Hey." Cody sits at the table. He hopes he looks all right.

"You okay?" Nathan's frowning as he sets the other mug in front of Cody. "We're out of marshmallows."

"Yeah." Cody thinks it smells wonderful. But his tummy is still making vague rumblings. The idea of a single sip is enough to raise its protests to an uproar.

"Dude." Nathan towers over him, compassionate and persistent. "What's going on at your house?"

Cody stares at his mug. "I don't know."

Nathan pats him on the shoulder, then takes a seat next to Cody. His eyes scan the entire room; checking all the doors as he takes a loud and slurping drink from his mug.

He stares at Cody, pitching his voice near a whisper.

"You wanna find out?"

  


* * *

  


Deb's been a cop for too long not to know there's plenty this woman isn't telling them. But the bare details are disturbing enough, even if it is bullshit. How her counterpart from this Rita's world had been so overwhelmed by her brother's arrest and subsequent trial that she essentially drank herself to death. Accelerated alcohol poisoning; suicide by ethanol. 

The trial had been a speedy one, all things considered. Too many careers were at stake to be cutting corners. For the public and the bosses to be satisfied, heads would have to roll, and God help anyone who tried to cover their own ass without the clout to back it up. LaGuerta had resigned in disgrace. With Angel Batista finally stepping into her shoes, Miami had a new sheriff in town. One way or another, the Bay Harbor Butcher was going down for good.

Deb -- Rita's Deb -- hadn't even made it to the end of the trial. Dexter had waived any and all rights to an appeal, forcing his own public defenders to withdraw. He'd given his testimony, then gone back to his cell, not even bothering to request a final meal. By all reports he'd spent his remaining hours looking like a zombie. Just sitting around, waiting to die.

Rita had gone over to Deb's house. They'd had a fight, and Rita was hoping they could put it behind them. Only to find Deb lying on the floor, her body already growing cool. The apartment was littered with liquor bottles, many smashed to pieces against the walls.

Two days later, Dexter Morgan was executed by the state of Florida. It was unusual for a judge to specify method of execution in their sentencing, but in this case, lethal injection seemed ironically appropriate. It's enough to make Deb sick to her stomach even now. And she's one hundred percent certain as fuck that there's more to the story.

"What about the shooting?" All of this shit going on, Deb thinks it's a miracle she can sound so gentle. Years of practice, being forced to play good cop as well as bad. "At the motel?"

"What do you want me to say?" Rita sounds utterly helpless, but her anger is plain. "I'd been at that shitty little motel for two weeks. After the last one tried to charge me double."

"Jesus." Deb can't help the muttered reaction. Lumen and Dexter are watching from the couch. Astor still sits nearby, holding onto Rita's chain.

"I have one -- no. Two. For the first time in almost a year, I have two little goddamn glasses of wine." Rita's anger is growing, quiet but firm. "And I wake up -- my kids are gone. My purse, everything but the clothes I'm wearing -- gone. And I can hear someone, in the shower."

"And there was a gun on the table." Deb doesn't have to ask. It all fits.

"He came out. I pointed the gun at him -- I couldn't think straight! I asked him what happened to my --" Rita looks like she's about to cry again. "Oh, God..."

"Don't think about it." Deb tries to strike a commanding tone as she hands over a box of tissues. "It's my problem now."

"You don't have that on your conscience!" Rita wails, batting the box away. "I killed an innocent man!" 

"So what aren't you fucking telling me?" Deb shouts. She has to stop before she says something she'll probably regret. But the sight of the other woman cowering in fear is unbearable.

"Make him leave." Rita's trembling words are almost inaudible.

Deb looks up to to see Rita's gaze directed at Lumen. The vampire frowns, then nods.

"Come on." Lumen stands up, tugging Dexter by the hand. "Let's look at the stars for a bit."

Dexter looks nonplussed. Deb's waiting for him to argue, put up some kind of fuss. After all, this whole supernatural gig has been his thing from the beginning. She's still mad about how long it took him to tell her. Not to mention that other shit. But he just glances over at Astor, then rises and follows Lumen without a word of protest.

"You are so whipped," Deb mutters.

Dexter gives her a look. Not like he has any clue what she and Faith get up to behind closed doors. Still, it feels like he's daring her to challenge him to a pissing contest. She can't remember the last time he was this open with his emotions. Doesn't even know if he ever had any, for real. Not before the shock of Rita's murder finally taught the little boy it wasn't all fun and games.

Astor stands up, handing her end of Rita's chain to Deb. "I'll be in my room."

"Sweetie." Rita's already troubled. It looks like she's feeling extra cringe, at her own inadvertent endearment. "You don't have to go --"

"It's fine." Astor's already walking away. "Let me know when you're done."

Deb swallows at the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut. Not like this Rita's a vampire, or has super strength. Cop training would probably give her the edge. Then again, desperation can be a powerful thing.

"Go ahead." Rita looks like she's facing a firing squad. "Ask."

"So I started drinking." Deb has no fucking idea why she's going down this rabbit hole. Out of all the alternate facts she could be checking, this one seems like a guaranteed recipe for therapy. "When?"

Rita hasn't moved from her spot on the couch. Deb can sense the other woman gathering the courage to speak. Like the chain that connects them is somehow transmitting emotional states.

"After Dexter was arrested." Rita's watching her very carefully, ready for Deb to go off.

Deb laughs. She can hardly say she's surprised. "And?"

Rita swallows. Deb's already regretting her flippant tone, the reflexive sarcasm to shield against whatever might get thrown her way.

"Nobody else would talk to me." Rita's back to sounding helpless. Not desperate. The quiet kind. "Except Angel. And he was too busy once they made him LT."

"LT?" Deb has to laugh again. "Been hanging around a lot of cops?"

"Since before Dexter was arrested." There's a flash of anger in Rita's eyes, at Deb or the rest of the world. "I signed up for a gun safety course three days later. Half the class dropped out when they found out who I was."

 _Jesus._ Deb was right. She's already regretting this whole entire line of questioning. Let's not and say we did.

"I wasn't going to go back. But Angel told me there were no refunds." A rueful smile can be heard in Rita's voice, if not seen on her face. "And that he'd given the rest of them... a good talking to."

Deb can totally see that. "How'd you do?"

"Head of the class." Rita doesn't sound like she's bragging. "I'm no Sarah Connor. But I know which end is which."

"Dexter said you came in here with a gun." Deb's watching for any giveaways in body language or expression. "Is that true?"

"I never made it into the house." Rita scratches her ankle, desisting when the cuff prevents her from reaching the offending spot. "But yes. I did come here to kill him."

"Yeah, well -- my brother's a fucknugget. Let's get back to the important stuff." Deb puts a hint of authority behind her statement. "Like me."

Rita looks like she'd rather be staring at the carpet. Or at the bottom of the sea. Anything other than sitting here, having to say these things.

"You said I killed myself right after his testimony." Deb looks back over her mental notes. "Two days before they shot his ass up."

Rita nods. The dread in her eyes is still there, competing with resignation.

"You said we had a fight." Deb feels like she's standing at the edge of the high board. Looking down at the deep end. "What about?"

Rita's voice is almost a whisper. "You were drunk."

Deb has to lean forward to hear. She already knows she doesn't want to.

"I'm guessing I didn't spend too much time sober." She quashes the flicker of irritation. "Tell me what happened."

"Until the drinking got to be too much -- you and I spent a lot of time together." Rita manages a tiny smile. "At the gun range."

"Hope I was a good teacher." Deb gives a disdainful shrug. Inside, she's not feeling half bad. At least about that part.

"But you hadn't even gone into work. For weeks." Rita's dread is back in full force. "I kept calling, but you wouldn't pick up. I knew you were watching his testimony." A hint of anger. "I couldn't stop myself either."

Deb tries to focus on breathing. Not too fast or slow. Enough to remain conscious.

"And I knew -- I knew when I had to see you. When he said --" Rita looks like she's stabbing herself for the second time. _"Until I met Rita? I thought she was the only person in the world who loved me."_

Deb gapes, as Rita stumbles on.

 _"I think that's nice. I don't have feelings about anything. But if I could have feelings at all --"_ Rita's breath is coming fast and shallow. _"I'd have them for Deb."_

Deb shakes her head. She doesn't stop until she's reasonably sure she's not going to embarrass herself by passing out. Which is embarrasing enough in itself, but fuck it.

"I went over to your place. I pounded on the door, until you let me in. And I begged you to stop drinking. To go into rehab -- anything. Whatever it was going to take." Rita swallows. "And you kissed me."

Deb blinks. Then she stares, momentarily befuddled. Rita's tearing up again, and it's tugging at her own fucking heartstrings, something fierce. Even if it is bullshit.

"And I --" Rita swallows again. "At first, I didn't -- but then I --"

"Hey." Deb almost reaches out to take Rita's hand, before thinking better of it. The chain in her own hand doesn't help. "Just get it out, okay?"

Rita's chuckle lies on the brink of madness. She looks up at the ceiling, wiping her face before returning her gaze to Deb.

"We were this close." The tragedy in those eyes is enough to break Deb's heart twice over. "And I would have. But you --"

"I backed out." The realization is sudden as it is certain. Deb can see it all playing out, just like the motel shooting. "I freaked out."

"That's putting it mildly." Rita's shaky laugh is marginally steadier. "And I was going to stay anyway. Because I didn't want you to be alone."

Deb can see the end in sight. It's only a question of that last step.

"And you know why I didn't?" Rita's tears are back. "My kids. Because I didn't want to leave them alone either. And two days later you're fu-- you're fucking _dead_ \--"

"Oh Jesus fuck." Deb can't believe she's already on her feet, dropping to her knees and taking this sobbing impossible woman into her arms. Feeling the beat of her heart; buying into her bullshit.

Because even if it is, Deb feels shaken to the bone. The scary thing is how damn plausible it all sounds. Especially to herself, who knows herself better than anyone. 

But in this world -- the only reality that matters, as far as Deb's concerned -- she's not some repressed closet case. And despite knowing the truth about her fucktastic brother, she's actually kind of managing to deal.

Things could definitely be worse.

  


* * *

  


Lumen and I are sitting on the front steps. Just like any other couple, gazing up at the night sky. I've tried more than once to engage her in conversation, but she won't bite. She leans on my shoulder, still as a statue. Apart from the occasional pleased little sigh.

"Are you listening?" I have to ask, my own voice a whisper.

"Not on purpose." Lumen gives me a reproving look, leaning her head back onto my shoulder as she snuggles in tighter. "Now shush."

I'm glad we bought a little more time as far as Cody is concerned. I'm glad, too, that Bill from next door sounds so normal over the phone. Enough that it doesn't seem suspicious for us to put off meeting in person until tomorrow. 

But Cody will be back then. At some point, we have to decide what to do. And the sooner the better.

A gentle knock comes from inside the front door. Astor pokes her head out.

"I guess they're done."

We troop back in to find the atmosphere very subdued. Deb and Rita both look like they've taken a hit to the solar plexus. My sister even more so.

"I think we need to get some rest." Nobody appears to object as I take control of the proceedings. "It's been a long day. Astor, will you take our guest back upstairs? With the air mattress from the hall closet?"

Rita's looking like it was a mistake to come down in the first place. Lumen has her own peculiar mix of emotions going on, to the point where my amateur skills are unable to interpret.

"Just for one more night." I nod at the chain in Astor's hand that leads to Rita's ankle. "We'll talk again in the morning."

Rita gives me a look over her shoulder as they ascend the stairs. I can't tell if I'm helping.

"And switch the cuff to her other ankle," I call up. "That's got to be chafing by now."

  


* * *

  


This is the worst idea ever.

"That branch right there." Nathan's voice is low as he gently moves the end of the viewfinder back and forth. "See it? Right by the roof."

"I see it." Cody wishes he didn't. He wishes there was no tree there at all, or any ladders within a hundred miles. That he could just snap his fingers and wish his brother and sister here with him, safe and sound. He can't even snap his fingers.

The worst part is it doesn't even look that bad. He's used to being scared just thinking about stuff like this. Compared to the way he's been feeling today, Nathan's proposal sounds easy as falling off a log. Easier.

"What if we get caught?" It's always the first thing on Cody's mind. At least when it's something you can get in trouble for.

"It's your house." Nathan still doesn't sound impatient. At least not with Cody. More eager to put their plans into action.

Cody has to admit that's what does it. If Nathan had been a butthole who called him chicken, or even acted like he was, there never would have been a moment's doubt in his mind. But it's this positive and optimistic attitude that cinches it for him.

"All right." Cody holds out his right hand in a fist. "Let's do it."

  


* * *

  


"And are there any children present?"

"One boy -- he's spending the night next door." Owen has to think. "In the house -- another boy. Toddler. Barely walking and talking."

Philip nods, continuing to lay out supplies on the table. There's enough stakes to supply tents for a troop of Scouts, along with two pint flasks full of holy water. Not to mention their secret weapon.

"But the girl might be a problem." Owen tries to work out the best way to explain. You'd think it shouldn't be a problem, with vampires already on the table.

The assistant pastor doesn't look up as he loads a pistol crossbow. "How old?" 

"Just a teenager." Owen decides against too much detail. "But she's strong."

"I see." A brief frown flickers over Philip's brow, something unreadable in his eyes.

"And I have this." Owen places his gun on the table, careful to keep his finger well away from the trigger. "I'm no expert, but I know what I'm doing."

"Hopefully it won't come to that." Philip shakes his head. "Against vampires, if it's not high enough caliber to take off their head? You're wasting ammo."

Owen tries not to swallow, or do anything that might give away his state of mind. He's thinking of how much worse his little excursion into the Morgan house could have gone. If he'd tripped, or slipped, even just once in that mad dash for freedom --

But he hadn't. And maybe he's making the mistake of his life, going back in where angels themselves might fear to tread. But this time he's prepared. He has knowledge on his side, and a strong new ally. Forewarned is four armed.

"And finally --" Philip pulls out a length of chain with a cross. Owen bows his head, feeling it loop around his neck.

"The symbol of our Lord's sacrifice." The pastor's massive hand descends once more upon his weak and unworthy shoulder. "May it give you strength when all else has failed."

Owen isn't ready. He never will be.

Then again?

No one is.

  


* * *

  


"You're sure you don't want to stay the night?" I'm actually hoping Deb doesn't take me up on this. It just feels rude not to ask.

"Fuck me." Deb sounds ready to fall over. "I just want to go home and crash. In my own fucking bed."

I'm wondering when I stopped calling her out on language. If Harrison makes it to college, that swear jar should be overflowing with cash.

"I'll call you in the morning." I do my best not to make it sound like a daunting prospect. "We'll figure this out."

Deb gives me the look I'm coming to know well. It says _Fuck you and the horse you rode in on._

"Hey." I tug on the sleeve of her shirt as she starts to turn. I see her try not to flinch.

"I love you." My hand falls away. I try to let my simple words say it all for me, everything I never could. "I still don't know what I'd do without you."

"Fuck you." But her quiet voice is full of unspoken emotion. It's not all bad.

"You don't have to hug me." I say it as she turns back toward me.

The laughter in Deb's face dies away, replaced with knowing mistrust. I'm thinking I made a mistake when I see the tiniest smile. More at her folly than my own statement.

"C'mere." Deb holds out her arms, looking embarrassed. "Fuckin' douche."

  


* * *

  


He's trying too hard to be quiet. Just like he tries too hard to not crash every time he tries driving down the side of the mountain in his virtual off-road buggy. Cody has to stop where he is and breathe. If he doesn't, he'll fall for sure. And that will make a lot of noise.

But Nathan is there underneath him. Shoving Cody up with one firm shoulder, bracing his own feet against the branch below.

Cody's so surprised he almost misses the roof. Then he tumbles onto the rough sandpapery surface, coming to a quick and scraping stop. The skin on his arms tingles and burns, but his ears are burning harder as they strain to detect the slightest sound of alarm. 

Nathan drops down beside him. Out of nowhere, just like Batman. Cody's about to say something when he remembers they have a code. One is stop, two is go. He's pretty sure he'll forget anything more complicated.

The attic window is still lit up. A bare stone's throw from where they sit, past the adjoining section of roof that Cody knows is right over the living room. At this time of night, everyone should be in their own bedrooms. And those are on the other side of the house. Cody's is the only one on Nathan's side.

So they still have to be as quiet as possible. But there's a chance they can make it to that window without being heard. As long as nobody's up getting a midnight snack, Cody actually feels optimistic.

He thinks he sees a shadow move, as they're creeping their way up the other roof. Cody would look, but he's concentrating too much on not falling. This really is no big deal as long as you crouch low and hold on tight. And don't look down.

The window is right above his head. His trembling fingers grasp the sill, as Nathan creeps up behind. Cody peeks over the edge.

"M--"

_please god dont let me pee again please dont let me pee_

_or fall_

Cody honestly thinks he may faint. Just like people on TV. Mostly women, but men too. When they're overcome by emotion.

"Ma--"

Nathan's staring at him like he's gone nuts. Staring back and forth between Cody and the woman behind the window who Nathan has no idea looks exactly like his mother. The woman who has both hands over her mouth, looking like she's about to burst into tears.

Nathan points at the sash, with a questioning nod. The woman looks confused, then gives a frantic nod of her own.

The two of them working together are able to work it open without too much noise, one agonizing fractional inch at a time. Cody is watching on pins and needles the whole time, trying not to fall. Or pee, or faint. Or start screaming as loud as he can.

The window is open, wide enough for either of them to crawl through. The woman kneels, eager and full of joy, more than ready to receive them.

Cody swallows as he pulls the cross from inside his shirt. Holds it out toward her, feeling Nathan looking at him like he's worse than crazy.

Her face crumbles. Her trembling fingers reach out, coming to rest upon the tiny piece of metal.

No sizzle and smoke. No screams of pain. Only his dead mother, looking like she'd crawl through hell to get to him.

"Mom --" Cody chokes it back. He has to stay quiet.

Her hands are soft as she helps him through the window. She smells like dust and sweat and exactly how Cody remembers and all the energy in his tiny body, all that unscreamed emotion is going into his arms. She's crying right along with him as they hug each other, so tight his heart may burst. He can feel hers too, thumping away hard enough to break through her own chest. It makes him realize how much his every contact with Lumen has been missing that pulse and pump of life. How Lumen doesn't even breathe, except when she's trying to.

"My baby," Rita whispers. Cody doesn't even care as he swallows and tries to breathe quietly. "Oh, my baby..."

He doesn't know how much time goes by. He never wants it to end. But they came here to find things out. And now they have to help her.

Whatever it takes.

"This is Nathan." Cody whispers it too, right in her ear. "He lives next door."

Nathan nods, still looking confused. Cody envies him no end.

"Can you get Mommy this key?"

She looks as terrified as Cody feels. And with a glimmer of hope, as his eyes slide to the cuff around her ankle, the length of bike chain shackling her to the main support beam.

"It's on Dexter's keyring."

  


* * *

  


"I'm glad we finally got ahold of you."

 _"Yes, well -- think no more of it."_ Giles sounds frazzled, but thoroughly awake. _"Anything to avoid another bloody meeting."_

"Sorry about this, but -- I'm going to put you on speaker." I set my phone down on the dresser. "How come you called this number?"

_"Pardon?"_

"Instead of Astor," I clarify. "I mean -- she's the Slayer."

 _"Oh, yes. Responsible adult and all that."_ A rueful chuckle. _"Quite silly of me, really."_

Astor frowns. "I heard that."

 _"I'm sure you did."_ Giles sounds drier than a Bond martini. _"Now I take it you're concerned with more coherent fact and theory regarding alternate dimensions than our resident Tin Chef can provide?"_

 _"I heard that!"_ a younger voice whines.

 _"Andrew, go away!"_ Giles sighs. _"I'm just going to have to go up to the roof again, aren't I? The boy can't stand heights."_

It turns out that opening portals between dimensions is not a trivial thing. It also takes ungodly amounts of energy. Or godly, depending on your point of view.

"And you're sure that requires an innocent?"

 _"Absolutely."_ Giles sounds ironclad.

"Too bad." I can't help sounding a bit regretful. "So blood sacrifice is off the table."

"She said she didn't know where her kids were." Astor looks like the ramifications are just sinking in. "You mean there's another me? And Cody, and Harrison?"

I do hope Cody's having a less stressful evening than I am. Not that I ever had a carefree childhood to recall through a lens of nostalgia. But right now, my stepson's biggest fear is probably doing well at the latest video game.

I wish him the best.

  


* * *

  


He doesn't think they can do it. But just like the window, with Nathan and Rita's combined efforts, they're able to quietly lift the attic door. Just enough for Cody to slip through.

His heart throbs, feeling twice as big as it should inside Cody's frail ribcage as he creeps down the steps. The third from the bottom is the one that squeaks. He doesn't come up here much, but he remembers that. He's not sure whether to risk stepping entirely over it, or put all his weight on the other end and hope for the best. With this much at stake, neither seems good.

He can hear voices in the master bedroom, on the other side of the wall. Astor is saying something. Then Dexter, and some other man on the other end of a phone.

Cody wonders where Lumen is. Maybe she's waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, with folded arms and a stern look. Right before she tells him naughty little boys get eaten.

His gorge rises as his foot comes down. Only for both to settle, in relieved silence.

As long as Lumen is in the bedroom with the others, the hard part is over. He can see Dexter's keys on the counter. Cody's holding his breath all the way over and he has to keep doing it the whole time he's lifting up the keyring, like it's a live grenade. 

But there it is. He carefully stuffs them in his pocket, so they won't jingle about.

"So you have to be in the right place on this side." Dexter sounds more frustrated than Cody's used to hearing. "How do you know where that is?"

He doesn't try to hear the rest. Right now, the important thing is to make it back upstairs. Mom will know which key is the right one. Maybe they can get her out the window.

"Oh, baby!" Her kiss on Cody's cheek sends an electric thrill through every cell in his body. "Here. I've got it --"

Nathan watches the proceedings in puzzled silence. Cody's bursting with excitement as the key slides into the lock, popping it free.

All three of them freeze at the sound of a bell. Cody relaxes slightly, realizing it's the front door downstairs. He can hear footsteps crossing the house, passing underneath them. Probably Dexter, from the sound. Cody feels like Sherlock Holmes.

"Good evening." The voice is strange, friendly and male. "I just saw your light, and -- I broke down just a block over."

"Oh?" Dexter sounds noncommittal.

"I'm such a dunce --" A knowing chuckle. "Left my phone --- was only going to be a minute."

Cody feels a horrid pain. He looks down to find his mother clutching his wrist, so tight he's afraid his hand will come off.

Her eyes slide over to Nathan. Her finger pointing down, as her gaze asks him one simple question.

_Are you with us?_

  


* * *

  


Owen remembers his instructions. Philip had been quite clear. Stay in the bushes, hide in the shadows. Stick to the tranquilizer darts while you're at a distance. Don't follow until I cross the threshold.

Except he can hear something going on inside. A clatter of metal. Philip stands in the doorway, a look of surprise on his face.

"Don't you fucking move!" It's a woman's voice. Not Lumen. "Not another step --"

"Please!" Philip holds up both empty hands. Owen can see the bulge of the stakes and holy water in back, stuffed into pouches on his belt. "There's no need for violence! I'll go --"

He can't let this happen. Not now.

Owen reaches inside his shirt. The hard metal of the gun is cold under his fingertips.

_lord give me strength_

He barrels past a startled Philip. Right under his arm, before the other man can stop him.

The living room is exactly how he remembers it. Except for the woman who was tied up, now very much free. Brandishing a kitchen knife, with two young boys peeking out from behind.

"What the fuck?" Dexter sounds baffled and irritated beyond measure. His voice drops to a mutter. "She really is a bad influence."

"What the fuck!" This comes from the girl, who's just emerged from her bedroom wearing a nightshirt and sweatpants. She stares at the roomful of crazy grownups, her eyes widening as they land on her brother and his friend.

And Lumen is staring at her ex-fiancee. _"Owen?"_

"Is this your hostage?" Suddenly there's a stake in Philip's right hand. His posture is wary as he confronts the unknown woman with the two boys. "She may have been turned --"

"You little bastard!" Lumen's staring at Owen in realization. "You shot me!" 

Her roar nearly deafens him. Like the growl that almost made him have an accident.

_"Father!"_

Owen lunges in desperation as Lumen hurtles forward. Something that feels like a baseball bat meets his chest, sends him flying away and into the couch, hard enough to flip it over.

Chaos is ensuing all around; smashing and yelling, shrieks of young and old. A wordless wail of protest comes from the bedroom, the voice of the youngest boy.

 _"Vade retro, satana!"_ Philip's booming voice is accompanied by a howl of pain from Lumen. A sickening sizzle fills the air, that reminds Owen of pork chops.

"Motherfucker!" Lumen snarls. Owen struggles to his feet to find her facing off against Philip. Smoke curls up from the flesh on her arm.

"I really think we need to calm down." Philip towers over the rest of the room, his height and soothing baritone attempting to take charge. The pastor holds Lumen at bay with a crucifix, his handheld crossbow trained on Dexter's chest. "If we can just --"

Owen feels his perception slow to a crawl. The world is moving through molasses. Everything sounding like it's underwater.

Lumen's demonic face contorts with pain as she forces herself closer to the cross in Philip's hand. The pastor's crossbow hand wavers, unsure of its target.

Dexter and Astor are poised to pounce, while the woman who used to be their hostage continues to shield the two boys with her own body. The outthrust knife trembles, her face full of confusion and fear.

Owen's in a movie. In his right hand the real gun; in his left the trank dart, loaded for bear.

His shot from the right goes wide. For a moment Owen thinks he's missed. Then Lumen stumbles back, clutching her side. And the dart has found its target as if guided by divine providence. 

"You little bitch!" Astor grabs the dart from Dexter's arm, yanking it loose and hurling it back. Owen reflexively ducks.

"No!" Philip shouts. "Wait --"

His eyes bug out of his skull as Astor's foot meets his chest, sending him flying back and into the wall. Literally into; nearly a quarter of an inch, with an impact that shakes the entire house. Plaster rattles down from the ceiling as Philip falls motionless to the floor, a trickle of blood spreading beneath his face.

"Back!" Owen can barely see as he fends a snarling Lumen off with his own cross. Firing almost completely blind with his dwindling live ammo; praying with all his might, as he lets loose the second and final trank.

"Mom!" The smaller boy stares at the unknown woman. She clutches the dart protruding from her chest, sinking to her knees.

"I said get back!" Owen keeps his gun trained on the girl as he moves forward to grab the falling woman by the wrist. The other boy lunges for his crotch. Owen kicks him away, feeling his own little toe snap inside his soft-soled sneaker.

Dexter staggers sideways into the wall with a resounding crash. A handful of pictures come loose from their moorings, sliding to the floor in a series of smaller crashes.

Owen staggers back, dragging the woman along with him. Her struggles are already lessening as he gathers her up, keeping his gun trained on the doorway as he stumbles blindly toward the car he knows is right behind him. The keys are still in the ignition; their rendezvous secure and waiting. If not for Philip.

This is all his fault.

He has to make it right.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath. Making sense out of chaos. Two secrets finally revealed, to little effect. Nice guys wear black. And one more step closer to the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not graphic violence, but probably disturbing.

_Dexter?_

Something about this seems familiar. I don't know why.

"Dexter!"

I also don't know why someone is shaking me. I'm not sure if it's Astor or Cody. They both sound awfully upset.

"Dexter, wake up!"

I manage a grunt. My limbs feel like they've been packed with wet sand as another voice is saying my name. A woman; older, less panicky. But still with a note of urgency.

Multiple hands are helping me sit upright. The world swims as I try to force my eyes open. Everything is too bright and my stomach hurts.

I recognize the effects. A readily available animal tranquilizer. The sting in my bicep reminds me where the dart went in. Before Astor yanked it back out, sparing me a full dose.

I stare around at the remains of the Morgan family living room. The couch is overturned, the folding card table mangled beyond repair. Pictures scattered all over, the floor littered with shards of glass.

"Dexter?"

The towel pressed against Lumen's side is dripping with red. Cody and his friend are standing slightly back from the group surrounding me. His friend's face is full of confusion and concern, while Cody looks like he's trying not to cry. Astor doesn't look any better.

"He's still breathing." Astor's voice trembles. She sounds like she's on the verge of hysteria. "He -- oh, God --"

"Calm down." Lumen's voice is thick with pain as she struggles to enforce rational thought on the rest of us. "And call 911." 

The far wall is a cartoon come to life. An expanse of plaster, bearing an indentation of a human body. And on the floor below, the body itself.

"We need to take him now!" Astor stands up, her hands balled into fists. "What are you waiting for?"

"Ambulance." Lumen grits her teeth and presses harder against the bloody makeshift bandage. "Medical professionals."

"You don't need a fucking ambulance!" Astor is screaming. "Help me get him in the car, you --"

"Astor," I manage.

Everyone's looking at me again. I hate it when they do that.

"She's right." I indicate the fallen body. "He's probably bleeding inside."

Lumen doesn't say anything. But from the way her nostrils flare and her pupils dilate, I'd call that a definite yes.

"If someone doesn't know what they're doing, and tries to move him?" I don't hold back in my effort to make an impression. "It could kill him."

Astor's eyes are wide and frantic. Her lips are white and tightly pressed together, clamping down on the flood of emotion battering at the gates.

"Especially if they don't know their own strength." I have to lean on Astor to make it to my feet. But the dizziness and nausea are fading.

"And you have to immobilize the neck and back for a chest injury." I nod, as the fog over my thoughts continues to slowly dissipate. "Call 911."

"What happened to my mom?" Cody sounds as bad as Astor. Terrified, on the verge of tears. And mad as hell. "You said she died! You said --"

"Cody?" I'm not surprised at how calm I sound. I am a bit surprised at how calm I feel, as I hold out my hand. "Give me my keys."

For a moment the fear in his eyes outweighs everything else. But he can tell I'm not angry with him.

"It's okay, buddy." I feel his hand trembling as he deposits the keys in my own. "I know you were just trying to help."

Cody sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. He's wearing unfamiliar clothes. I wonder what happened.

"Here." Lumen hands me the phone with a wince and goes back to wrapping a bath towel around her midsection. I can already hear the operator on the other end, asking what my emergency is.

"I have a blunt force trauma victim with internal bleeding. Hard blow to the chest." I glance over at the subject. The spreading crimson under his face is forming a halo around his head as it sinks into the carpet. There's a clerical collar under his shirt. "3319 Meadow Lane."

She's already asking me something else. I don't stay on the line. Cody's eyes are red, boring into mine as I hang up.

"Your mom's gone." I kneel before him. I'm still feeling a little off balance from the trank dart. "I'm sorry. But that's the truth."

"You're lying." Tears run down Cody's face. He sounds like he's choking, barely able to breathe.

"I wish I was." I shake my head. "You don't know how much."

Cody sends a tear-filled gaze over at Astor, who turns away without a word. Her own legs are more than a little unsteady as she approaches the injured man, sitting by his side with her back to the rest of us.

"I'm sorry I lied to you before." I say. "Even if it was stuff I didn't tell you. I'm sorry I had to keep anything from you at all."

"Dude." Cody's friend is staring at my stepson like he's transformed into Conan the Barbarian. "What's going on?"

"What's your name?" There's an unpleasant glint in Lumen's eye as she towers over the two boys. Her impromtu sash is a bicolored ribbon. It reminds me of the Austrian flag.

"Nathan." The boy keeps trying to look Lumen in the eye. For some reason, it's not working. I'm not sure if he's distracted more by her breasts or the blood.

"But right now?" I reach out and place my hands on Cody's shoulders. "We have to save your other mom. For real."

Lumen limps over to the kitchen sink. I watch as she holds a washcloth under the faucet, waiting for the water to run cold; wringing it out, careful not to rip it in half. Cody's staring up at her, every cell in his body ready to cower away as she draws near.

"It's okay." I impress this as sternly as I can without sounding mad. "She's on our side."

Cody stands immobile as he stares at the washcloth in her hand. Lumen sighs and puts it in mine, then turns and walks away. She's still holding one hand over the wound in her side, staring at the pool of blood around the head of the fallen man as she kneels next to Astor.

"Nathan," I say. The boy looks surprised, but I try to sound as if I'm treating him like a fellow grownup. "Can Cody still spend the night with you?"

"Sure." Nathan looks somewhat dubious as he regards his new friend. Cody is steadfastly attempting to dry his tears and be a big boy. Or so I gather.

I take a few more deep breaths before climbing to my feet. My brain feels mostly recovered, but it takes a moment to remember which speed dial I'm looking for.

"Deb? Yeah --" I cut her off. "Can you come back and watch Harrison?"

 _"You --"_ A moment of pregnant silence. _"What's going on?"_

I'm amazed the negotiations don't take longer. Or involve more swearing. But the ambulance, and Deb, should be here any minute. After last year's police and FBI circus in my front yard, I'm surprised the neighbors aren't running us all out of town on a rail.

"Astor." I make it clear I'm addressing Lumen as well. "We need to find Rita."

Astor whips her head round. So fast, I'm surprised she doesn't break her own neck.

"No."

"Astor!" Cody's despairing cry bears the sting of betrayal.

"You do what you want." Astor swallows. But it's not fear smoldering in her eyes as they bore into mine, as her trembling fingers cover the pastor's unmoving hand. "I'm going with him."

Lumen's own fingers twitch. I think she's resisting the urge to dip them in the patch of blood-soaked carpet. I don't feel it myself, but I can imagine the temptation she must be feeling.

"We'll all go." Again, I include Lumen. "Together."

Cody's sniffling again, with Nathan doing his best at the clearly alien task of comforting. Astor is only slightly less frantic, but still looks volatile. On the edge of a major meltdown.

I know it's going to happen. It's just a question of how long it takes this man to die. And much he suffers, before the end.

Because I already feel the urge to kill. Find the person responsible, and make them pay.

And I know I'm not alone.

  


* * *

  


There are no swears. No profanity foul and shocking enough to describe her state of mind; no possible way to express the profundity of her outrage at her brother and the universe in general. Not when she hasn't even had enough time to take off her shoes and open a beer before Dexter has to ring her up with yet another vague emergency. Because of course.

"Oh, it's nobody." Deb hurls her keys against the refrigerator, leaving a dent. She grabs them off the floor and stalks out of the apartment. "No, kids are fine. We're all great. Total stranger. Never seen him..."

At least it only takes her two tries to lock the front door. She actually feels ready for anything as she slides behind the wheel. The brief glance in the rear view mirror doesn't exactly help. But even now, things could still be worse.

She's almost to Dexter's when she thinks to call Quinn. He's not answering, and Deb grows more and more agitated, trying not to let it sink her foot through the floor. Every damn light is red, every other driver on the road bound and determined to fiddle and dither and waste her precious time.

Even if she didn't know the address, the string of gawking neighbors in their yards would lead her to Dexter's like a trail of breadcrumbs. She's trying Quinn a second time when she pulls up to see flashing ambulance lights in the driveway. And Quinn parked in front of her, climbing out of his car, holding up his phone with a grimace.

"What the hell?" Quinn sounds equally baffled and worried. "Deb, what's going on?"

"How should I know?" Deb throws up her hands, staring at the trauma workers carrying someone out of the house on a cart. "Ask my fucking brother."

"Shit --" Quinn breaks away, jogging over and holding up his badge. "Metro Homicide. Lemme see this guy."

"He's not dead," one of the workers points out.

"Not yet," the other chimes in, sounding more urgent. But Quinn's looking more baffled than ever as he stares down at the unconscious man's face.

"All right." Quinn steps back and the workers resume forward motion.

Astor and Dexter emerge from inside, dressed hastily for departure. Lumen is close behind, wearing an oddly bulky jacket.

"We're going with them." Dexter glances over in the briefest of greetings, but doesn't slow down or even break stride. "Call if you have to."

Normally this would be a good time for a swear. Deb still kind of wants to as she hurries inside without waiting for Quinn. It just doesn't seem worth the effort. Plus Lumen is more pale than usual, holding herself odd and stiff. And Astor looks like absolute death. Just how Deb would have predicted she might look upon seeing her dead mother come back to life, not at all a vampire.

She barely notices the siren start up, the ambulance pulling away outside as she stares at the trashed remains of Dexter's living room. The bloodstain on the carpet is particularly compelling. She can hear her nephew in the bedroom, kicking up a fuss. At least he's alive.

"Jesus please us!" Deb's heart is going seven miles a minute as she reaches into the crib. But Harrison's in one piece. She's actually surprised at her own overwhelming relief. Of course Dexter would have said if something happened. She's also surprised at her own restraint. Maybe Dexter's finger-wagging is rubbing off on her.

Miracle of miracles -- the kid doesn't even need to be changed. Harrison's already calming down, returning Deb's awkward embrace as she cuddles him close.

"Fuck," Quinn mutters, from the living room.

"Watch your language." Deb walks out to find him staring around. He looks far too horrified for the level of carnage they're seeing. "At least around this little guy, huh?"

"Sure." But Quinn's looking worse by the moment. Like he's about to say something that will ruin everything.

"Quinn?" Deb tries to sound cautious. Not at all suspicious. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Quinn laughs and shakes his head. Even that cynical humor fades as he looks over at the stain on the carpet.

"I think part of this is my fault."

There's no way she heard him right.

"Don't say that." Deb's remembering the look she saw on Astor's face. She's starting to fill in the blanks. And no matter how you slice it, things are looking pretty ugly. "Do not fucking say that."

"What was that about language?" But Quinn isn't smiling.

"Talk." Deb struggles to find words, as well as trying not to crush Harrison in her arms. "Now."

"The guy I showed you?" Quinn pulls a familiar photocopy from his pocket. "I'm bettin' he came in here with the one that left on a stretcher."

That had better not be why Dexter ducked out before he could answer any questions. But no. Something more is in play here. Maybe something above and beyond her own pay grade.

"So where the hell is he?" Deb balances Harrison on her hip as she opens the fridge, scanning the shelves in hope of beer. No such luck.

"I met him in the park." Quinn's so completely hopeless, he doesn't even sound depressed. It's like he's stating the law of gravity. "All I got's a phone number. Goes to a provider in Minneapolis. No idea where he's stayin' in town."

Deb bites back another curse. "You never took a plate?"

"Didn't think I needed to." Quinn is clearly wrestling with more than just his conscience. "So am I gonna get a little something or what?"

Deb takes a moment. More like three, as she sets Harrison down and leans on the counter, staring at the floor.

"Vampires are real." Deb ignores Harrison tugging at her pant leg as she gazes into the abyss. "And my brother's dating one."

A mild snort is Quinn's only reply. Deb looks over to find him shaking his head once more.

"I cut you a hell of a lot of slack, Morgan. More than any of my exes." Quinn is sounding royally pissed off. Like an emperor lopping off heads pissed. "I came back here because Cody was scared there might be some kind of trouble. Now you want me to sit around and jerk off? When lives are at stake?"

"No." Deb can't lie, or look away.

"But all this craziness." Quinn looks like he's been asked to jump out of a giant birthday cake for Masuka. "You know LaGuerta's gonna have my badge if I take it to her. Probably send me for counseling."

"I know." Deb shrugs, watching Harrison turn and head toward Quinn with both arms outstretched. "So what are you gonna do?"

"No choice." Quinn shrugs back, kneeling and chucking Harrison under the chin. "Got a late shift."

"Fudge." Deb tries on a smile that feels more crooked than usual. "Was hoping you'd keep the rug rat off my hands."

"Right." Quinn gives her another look. This is the one that says he sees right through her bullshit. "I'll call you."

She's woolgathering so long after the door closes she almost misses Harrison toddling in the direction of the bloodstain. She notices at the last, dashing over and sweeping him up before he can stick his finger into the soaked and increasingly sticky carpet.

"Don't you frickin' dare," Deb mutters. "Don't you frickin' dare."

Harrison gazes up at her, impeccably angelic.

  


* * *

  


He keeps replaying the movie in his head. But for every good and perfect moment, there's two or more showing him as the fool. Or the bad guy.

Lumen had looked at him like he was the bad guy. Right before she tried to rip out his throat.

This whole thing has gone out of control. Even the idea of going to the safe house is too much to bear; Father Cardoza and a trained nurse, ready and awaiting the triumphant return of the heroic vampire hunters. People had been starting to come out of their houses all along Meadow Lane, and Owen had panicked. Only blind stupid luck has temporarily saved him once again. At least in that regard, fate seems a bit more balanced.

He's been huddled in darkness, watching out the window. Listening for any sign that the woman might be coming to. His inventory consists of his gun, a single wooden stake, and a small leather case with the pastor's secret weapon. Too many unknowns. All his knowledge and preparation gone for naught.

He doesn't have anything to gag her with. Except for his own shirt. The idea repels him, even as Owen weighs the odds of her choosing to scream. Or of him being able to convince her of his good intentions after having tied her up quite securely with a handy length of clothesline. One of the few times his Scout badge turned out to be useful.

Too late anyway. He can hear sounds of movement, a light whimper of confusion.

"Ssh." He crouches beside her, striving for reassurance. "It's okay. I got you out of there."

An odd choking sound. He thinks she's trying to swallow.

"I'm sorry. I don't have any water." A sudden thought rises up through the haze of adrenaline. "But the sink might work."

"All right." Her harsh, cracked whisper gives nothing away. Nor her unblinking eyes that follow Owen as he stands. He feels them burning into the spot between his shoulder blades, all the way down the stairs. He's limping from the broken little toe, feeling it throb inside his sneaker.

Of course there aren't any glasses in the cupboards. Owen's about to give up when he spots an empty pop bottle on the counter. It looks clean, but he rinses it thoroughly. An apocalypse is no excuse for neglecting basic hygiene.

The only light in the room comes through the sole window. It's enough for him to see the stiffness in her body, over and above her being immobilized. With no idea how long she might have to stay that way, he'd chosen to tie her hands in front.

"I'm sorry." Owen holds the bottle to her lips. He waits for her to pull away before doing the same. "But I got you out of there."

"I see." Her voice is guarded, not at all optimistic. "May I go now?"

Owen can't help swallowing. "I'd rather you didn't."

A little chuckle. "I see."

"It's not like that." Owen tries to keep his voice low, his temper on an even keel. "You're not my prisoner! I just --"

"Really." Now it's a full and outright laugh, openly sarcastic. "I've heard that before."

"You don't understand." Owen's head is about to explode and he's having trouble breathing. He's trying not to weep as he grinds his fists against the floorboards, splinters grinding their way right back into the skin of his knuckles. "That woman -- we need to --"

"That woman?" Her voice bleeds with quiet anger. "That woman didn't come into my house waving a gun around. With three -- no. Four children --"

"I'm trying!" He has to stay quiet. So does she. It's very important that they not make the slightest sound.

"He's going to find you." She almost sounds amused. "And the only question? Is how long it's going to take you to die."

"Shut up!" His vision is clouding over. The gun is heavy in his hand.

"And if he finds you after I'm dead?" Her fatal amusement knows no bounds. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes --"

She's already partly unconscious from the first blow. Owen feels his hand fly through space, given additional momentum by the hunk of metal clenched between his fingers. The sound of the barrel hitting the side of her skull is loud enough itself to make him cringe. But he's drawing back, bringing it down again.

He staggers away from her twitching body. Hands pressed against his eyes as he falls to the floor in a daze, gagging on a series of dry heaves that leave him quietly crying and clutching his stomach. 

As always, time passes.

  


* * *

  


"He was such a nice guy."

We're standing in the waiting room. Standing, because apparently none of us can bear to sit down. Not even Lumen, who I swear has lost enough blood to kill at least one person. Maybe one and a half. 

She's telling me what she remembers of Owen. Their childhood together, their college years the same. Their inevitable engagement; her sudden flight, his tracking her down, his subsequent doomed attempt to convince her to leave Miami. I could have told him he was wasting his time. So could Cole Harmon. She and I had taken out Cole together in a hotel room, right under his boss's nose.

Except Lumen had tried to go back home. She hasn't talked much about it, except to say it just didn't work out. Her mom had been nice enough. But Owen had come around again, demanding answers. Not as though it sounded like anything would give this man closure.

"I thought there was something familiar about his scent." Lumen's been a vampire for months, and still looks astonished by her own supernaturally heightened abilities. And underneath the astonishment, she looks furious.

"I just didn't recognize it." A quiet growl rises in her throat. "Until he came back."

"He's the one?" I need to be sure. "The one who broke in before? And tried to shoot you then?"

Lumen meets my eyes in a cold stare. "Without a doubt."

I look over at Astor. She's standing a few feet from us, turned mostly away. It doesn't take a genius to see that she isn't reacting well to harming an innocent and very likely well-meaning man. The pastor had regained consciousness in the ambulance just long enough to ask her name. Astor had barely managed to get it out. He had smiled, and drifted back into dreamland.

Now we're waiting. Which is appropriate for a waiting room. On the other hand, it's the last thing I want to be doing. Only Astor's pain, and the knowledge that Cody and Harrison are in good hands, are enough to keep me here.

"I want to talk to him." Astor looks over at the closed double doors. "If he wakes up."

I'm not anticipating it. I think part of me is hoping he doesn't. It'll only hurt her more. I've seen enough of these injuries to know it'll take a literal miracle to keep him alive at all. Let alone in any kind of livable state.

It's depressing how often I hate being right.

The double doors part before the oncoming doctor like the Red Sea for Moses. He has the sort of face that looks jolly all the time. Except for right now.

"It won't be long," he says. I know what he means. It takes a moment for Astor to realize.

The doctor looks even more somber as he turns to Astor.

"He's asking for you."

  


* * *

  


"I'm sorry."

Owen doesn't know who that is. That soft and musical voice with a hint of discord. A slight mumble, as if through bee-stung lips.

Then he remembers.

He doesn't vomit as he sits up, very slowly. He can see her silhouette in the shadows. He doesn't want to see her face.

"You're sorry." Owen thinks he may laugh. "Right."

"My second husband?" A strong splash of bitter colors her statement. "Made you feel like a love tap."

His spinning head settles on a name. "Dexter."

"His name was Paul." Her words are flat. Devoid of emotion. "I'm pretty sure Dexter killed him."

He doesn't want to be here. Doesn't want to know these things.

"Maybe not directly. But you know what's funny?" A tiny chuckle of amazement, at her own foolishness. "It's the one murder I might have forgiven him for." 

He can't conceive of what she's talking about. Cannot comprehend. Not when it's taking all of his mental effort just to keep his head held together.

"I'm sorry, too." Owen watches his whirling thoughts begin to slow. Settling into some sort of pattern.

"You said you wouldn't want to be in my shoes. If you were dead." He can see it now, beginning to emerge. "So he cares about you."

She doesn't respond. He wasn't really expecting her to. She's struggling to keep her breathing steady, her rising emotion apparent before she speaks.

"What are you going to do?"

The scream is choked off as he pulls the shirt tight over her mouth from behind. Owen shoves her forward and wraps it three times round her head, tying it off without regard as to how it might pull her hair.

"I have to use you for bait." He holds the case in his hands like the One True Cross, running his fingers over the soft worn leather. Her muffled growl sounds nearly as angry as it does frightened. Owen doesn't blame her one bit.

"Then I'll let you go." He doesn't fumble as he undoes the latch and lifts the lid of the case. "I promise."

He stares at the syringe, capped and sealed in plastic.

"As long as she comes with him."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saying goodbye. A small talk that leads to something more. Grief and anger. Another brilliant idea. And a standoff, whose outcome remains uncertain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still need to do more of the outline for book 3 before I can write the last two chapters of this one. But apart from my own apprehension and lack of self-confidence, it's going okay.
> 
> * * *

They say it never gets easier.

Watching the life go out of anything is a sobering experience for most people. Especially another human being. Whether fast or slow, even learning of a loved one's passing from afar -- sometimes long after the fact -- can be enough to reduce grown men to tears.

Ask the man who had to tell his kids about their mom being murdered. While he was wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

I don't know if Astor will ever know how hard that was for me. I knew what I should be feeling. And yet I couldn't allow myself to feel it. Not until I'd reduced some redneck's face to an unrecognizable pulp, for no greater offense than being just plain rude. Other than Trinity himself, that day had been my stupidest mistake. And my greatest violation of the Code.

Astor looks like that. The way I felt as I sat on that filthy wooden floor, covered in a stranger's blood and screaming myself raw.

"I love you."

That startles her. I should have expected. She's standing with her arms wrapped around her chest.

I put my hand over hers, offering a squeeze. She doesn't speak. But her fingers find mine, return the pressure despite their trembling.

"Do you want me in there?" Lumen sounds like she's asking us both.

I look to Astor for a decision. It sounds like this one ought to be hers. I can't see her face as she shrugs, turning to address the doctor.

"I'm ready."

_No,_ I think, as Lumen and I follow her through the door. _You're not._

I've witnessed more death than most people will ever know. Ever since my mother was hacked to pieces before my eyes, it's been a constant companion on and off the job. But only three other times in my life has it truly affected me deep down in whatever passes for my soul. Rita was only the most recent. But the first was when I learned that my adopted father -- the man who gave me a Code by which to live and kill -- had in fact taken his own life. And the second had been when I chose my adopted family over my real one, taking the life of my own brother.

Horrified at his realization of the monster he'd created, Harry had overdosed on cardiac medication. Matthews had buried the autopsy, knowing the effect it would have on my sister. And on me. If only he'd really known. As for Brian, I'd grieved in my way. I'd suffered a period of downtime. But in the end, I'd managed to put him behind me with the help of a particularly large and violent individual by the name of Little Chino. And so my career as the Bay Harbor Butcher continued.

Until Sergeant Doakes became too much of a problem. I'd been about to murder him before thinking to frame him instead. But Lilah -- the original gross English titty vampire -- had finished the job for me, in her customary flamboyant fashion. I've always wondered what I would have done if she hadn't provided such a convenient way out of my dilemma by reducing the cabin and Doakes himself to little more than charred cinders. And I don't know how I might react if I somehow learned that one of my own victims had, in fact, never done a thing to deserve their fate at my hands.

That I'd been directly responsible for the death of an innocent.

The pastor's collar is missing. The rest of his shirt has been cut away, a tented white cloth covering his upper body. Tubes and wires snake out from beneath like tentacles, leading to their respective machines, all working in concert with a light thump and whirr, a hum and a hiss.

"Leave us." His tone is firm despite the weakness in his voice. He's watching Astor, the ends of fingers twitching slightly.

The doctor shakes his head. "Someone has to be here."

"To record the time." The pastor's eyes flutter. Astor winces at the tiny moan that escapes him. "Just...watch your machines."

The doctor looks less than accommodating as he stares at me, then Lumen and Astor each in turn. I see him frown, squinting at Lumen's jacket.

"We'll be fine." I go for the full voice of authority. As a blood guy on a squad of foul-mouthed detectives, I don't often get the chance to use that voice. Also, it doesn't usually work.

In this case I don't even have to resort to showing my badge. Which would raise even more questions, so it's probably for the best. The doctor nods, giving the patient a final glance before turning and exiting the room. It's not a large room. I wonder who's paying for it.

Astor approaches the bed as Lumen stands back, watching from a distance. A look of supreme wonder has joined the deep and growing pain on the man's face. Even a tiny smile of astonishment.

I step forward to join her at his bedside. His tousled brown hair and bright eyes, his chiseled jaw and aquiline nose, wouldn't look out of place on a classic movie star. Built like a swimmer, broad as a farm boy. I'm thinking farm. Those calloused hands and sizable muscles have the look of hard labor, rather than hours in the gym.

"You." He seems to suppress a slight moan. It doesn't affect the awe, the beatific expression on his face. Like he's just been introduced to a living typhoon, some primal force of nature given human form. "You are the Slayer."

Astor nods. I see her face ripple and twitch, a thousand emotions competing for dominance. She looks so uncertain as she reaches out, stopping an inch from his fingers.

"Please." He beckons her on. Astor is trembling all over as they join hands.

"I'm sorry," Astor whispers. She looks like she's trying not to blink. Or let her face squinch up, or start bawling. Just looking at her makes something hurt deep inside me. Not just for her, but for a total stranger. Someone I've never met.

"I know." The man shuts his eyes, seeming to gather his remaining energy. When he opens them again, they're full of purpose.

"I gave him strong magic." A grunt of pain, then another, greater one. Astor's clearly holding back to avoid crushing every bone in his hand. She covers their joined right hands with her left, shaking her head in dismay.

"We don't even know...what it does." This time it's a cough that interrupts him until he recovers. The less said about that, the better. "A researcher. From Brazil. Said not to rely...if time was a factor..."

"What is it?" My voice is too sharp as I bend over his bed, clenching the railing. "How long does it take? What form does it come in?"

"You --" The pastor's groan is much louder this time. Astor's eyes are enormous as he gazes up at her with love. I don't know where it comes from. But I've had just enough experience to think I know it when I see it.

"The most important thing...you must do."

"Anything." Astor seems to derive some small calm from this. She straightens and squares her shoulders, posture firm and proud.

"You must --" A gasp from the pastor coincides with a blip from one of the machines. "Forgive."

"You -- that guy who came in with you?" Astor's shaking her head. "I can't --"

"Of course." His lips manage another smile. "But that's not who I meant."

I can imagine all too well what he must be going through. Physically, that is.

"The hardest thing..." He's putting nearly all of his strength into his grip on her hand. His veins stand out like ropes, his failing voice laboring to be heard. "Is to forgive...yourself."

I feel a sudden start from Lumen. An involuntary movement, that has nothing to do with breath.

All the machines are going off. It seems more appropriate to say they remain on. And that the man they're attached to no longer is. 

Lumen comes up behind, her hand creeping into my own. Astor bows her head. I can see her shaking with emotion, barely held in check as an aura of cold and righteous fury begins to settle in. From the look on Lumen's face, my daughter is far from alone.

I don't know if either of them can forgive this Owen person. But if any harm comes to Rita?

I certainly won't.

  


* * *

  


"What the hell?" Quinn's not sure he's seeing this right. But it's true. Debra Morgan is walking through the station with a baby carrier, enduring all the expected hoots and rude remarks from the midnight crew in residence. She grins and flips a finger at one of them as she opens the door to the inner section, leaving Quinn just enough time to make sure he looks halfway presentable.

"Thought you and him were staying home tonight." Quinn tickles his partner's cargo under the chin.

"Coey!" Harrison smiles back and waves his arms. 

"Whoa." Deb sounds unsarcastically impressed. "What about your sister? Huh?"

"Might want to work on that pronunciation." Quinn chuckles at the thought. "So what brings you downtown at this hour?"

Deb shrugs. "Figured I'd be safer in a building full of cops." 

"Now that's using your noggin." Quinn goes for a casual approach. "Gonna be here 'til sunup?"

Deb levels a glare that could melt steel. "What do you think?" 

"Hey." Quinn drops back into his chair with a thud. "Your side? Partners?"

"I know." Deb surveys the surrounding empty desks with a dubious eye. "It's quiet. You think we can let him roam free?"

"Not if Vince left his door unlocked."

They share a chuckle, but it seems _pro forma_. 

"So." Quinn tells himself he doesn't even care. One last hurrah. "If you ever want to clue me in to what's really going on --"

"What?" Deb sounds exhausted. "You're not gonna believe. Not until it's staring you in the face. Ripping off your head and shitting down your neck."

"You got the soul of a poet," Quinn remarks. "Anybody ever tell you that?"

"Yeah. Some douchebag cop." Deb narrows her eyes. "He was actually pretty good in the sack. But he had no respect for boundaries."

"Boundaries." Quinn shakes his head, watching Harrison struggling to climb free of his carrier. "Don't suppose you want to hear about the pictures Stan Liddy showed me before he died? Your brother and his girlfriend? Out on his boat?"

"No." Deb's face doesn't register a thing. Not the slightest twitch of a single muscle. "I don't."

"Fair enough." Quinn shrugs it off. "Guessin' you already know."

It was just a stab in the dark. Not too big a leap. He's not even looking her in the eye; still watching Harrison's attempt at escape, amazed and gladdened by the young man's persistence. But Quinn can tell he's struck a paydirt of raw nerves. Whatever else she might know more than him about, she knows a fuck of a lot more than she ever wanted to about Dexter.

"All right." Deb sighs, cradling her face in her hands. "All right."

"What was that?" Quinn cups one hand to his ear. "Couldn't quite catch that."

"Just shut up." Deb pulls out her phone and peers at the screen, scrolling through some sort of list. "And watch this."

  


* * *

  


"I can't." Astor's shaking her head, almost violent. "Not now --"

"Astor." I use every scrap of comfort at my command. We're alone in the waiting room, but it won't last forever. "I know this is hard --"

"You don't even care!" Her face is blotchy and swollen, her burning eyes shot through with streaks of red. "Just like when Mom --"

"Stop it!" Lumen snaps. There's probably more to that thought, but she grabs her side with a hiss of pain. At least the bullet went clean through.

"Don't ever say that." I meet Astor's tearful gaze head on, refusing to let the Slayer intimidate me. "Don't."

"We need to find this other Rita before something worse happens." Lumen is the voice of the calm and rational adult. Just like me. "Before anyone else dies."

"Bill." I remember his name. "Nathan's dad. Where Cody's spending the night."

"What about him?" Astor is starting to look self-conscious about her less than pristine appearance. I think that means we're getting somewhere.

"He might have seen Owen around." I know I'm grasping at straws, but it's all we have. "Maybe he remembers a car --"

"No." Astor's not yelling any more. In this case, I consider it a bad sign. "We don't have time to play cops and robbers."

"This man is human." I stress the last word. "It's not Slayer business."

"Oh." Astor's voice has a pH at least double that of chlorine. In other words, bitter as hell. "Like the people you --"

"Astor." Lumen's voice is low, carrying an iceberg of implied warning underneath. She turns to me with doom in her eyes.

"But she's right."

I don't like where this is going. "About what?"

"About what he deserves." Lumen seems to radiate a chill that threatens to strip the flesh from my bones. A warrior maiden of iron and ice. "And who has the right to give it to him."

"That's not us," I say. Much as I'd like it to be. "It can't be. There's already too much evidence. No way to clean up --"

"Because life is messy." Despite her injury, Lumen shows no sign of backing down. "And if you don't handle this guy? Someone will."

"Someone like you?" I shake my head. "That would be a mistake."

"You think the police can catch a vampire?" Lumen's snort sums up her opinion of that assessment. "Or a Slayer?"

"I wouldn't put it past them," I say. "You never know when they might get lucky."

"They're welcome to try." Lumen looks over at Astor, then back at me. "Because as far as Owen is concerned?"

Her dramatic exit is slightly spoiled by the fact that she's still limping slightly, holding her side as she turns and walks away. But when Lumen pauses and turns, one hand on the door, I have to admit her timing is impeccable.

"His luck just ran out."

  


* * *

  


"I'm telling you. It's not a movie." Deb sounds more serious than a heart attack. "And my girlfriend's not a stuntwoman."

Quinn still doesn't buy it. Anyone can cheaply fake something these days with digital magic. And thousands of years ago, court magicians were pretending to pull out their own kidneys, live on stage.

Except it doesn't add up. Too many little cues in the video just seem off, not what you'd expect from a professional production trying to look anything but. 

"And what exactly are you telling me?" Quinn's been keeping Harrison occupied so the kid doesn't wander off. He's running out of ideas and funny faces.

"My niece is one of those girls." Deb pauses with her finger over the virtual button onscreen. "You want to see the kneecap again?"

"No." It reminds him of that rock video someone pulled out at a party when he made detective, claiming it would strengthen his stomach for the job to come. But even with all the messed up sights Quinn's seen in his career, few of them come close to that video. If someone started playing it right now he'd get up and walk the fuck out, in a hot minute. That simple.

"When you talk to Vince? Just tell him you're a second string Scooby." Deb's grin isn't huge, but it's real. "Make him think you're keeping him company on the JV squad."

"That little fucker." Quinn sends a shamefaced glance at Harrison. "Sorry."

"He doesn't like to get his hands dirty with this stuff." Deb's smirk is just rueful enough to reveal her own sympathy. "But he has been doing his homework."

"So what about your girl?" Quinn cocks an eyebrow, warning her against more evasion. "Always knew was there was more to her than meets the eye."

"No shit." Deb looks embarrassed and vindicated. "Seriously. Come watch Astor work out sometime."

"What, and look like a pervert?" He tries to envision it. "What's she do?"

"Last time I asked Dexter? He said over a thousand raw. Deadlift." Deb shakes her head in disbelief, with a trace of envy. "And she's still growing."

He's already seeing it. Some crazy setup with rigged plates, magnets under the platform. Except there's another competing vision taking shape with greater clarity. A vision where his every objection is shown to be moot, where he ends up facing incontrovertible proof of all this impossible bullshit.

He could probably ruin her right now if he went to Internal Affairs. Wouldn't even need to put himself on the line. Just drop a dime. Come in the next morning to an empty desk beside his own.

"God fuckin' speed, Morgan." Quinn holds out his arms.

"Douche." But she's smiling as she comes in for a hug.

"Love ya." His hand drops, getting in that one last squeeze.

"Douche!" She pulls back with a blush and punches him in the arm.

Quinn holds up his hands in mock surrender. "For old time's sake." 

"You really have a death wish, don't you?" Deb glances back at Harrison to see if he noticed.

Quinn shrugs. "You gonna tell her?"

"You think I want to get stuck with your hospital bills?" Deb rolls her eyes, still lightly scarlet. "As long you stop in the morning and check on my nephew."

"No problem." Quinn smiles, relieved to receive such an easy task. "He's a good kid."

"Yeah." Deb's looking depressed again despite Harrison's antics. "He is."

Quinn can't help a sarcastic chuckle. "So you're givin' him the mushroom treatment too, huh?"

"Not exactly." Deb swallows, looking slightly ill. "I'm thinking that cat's out of the bag."

  


* * *

  


It'll be okay. It has to be okay. Because the grownups are on the case.

At least Dexter is. Bill was already asleep, passed out in his bedroom. Cody had thought he was drunk, but Nathan just said he worked twelve hour days.

But he's had a taste of the action. And scared as he is, Cody can't continue to sit this one out. Can't allow himself to live in fear, or be lied to ever again.

_Then speak up for yourself._ He can imagine Quinn, with that square jaw and surfer's haircut and general good humor, earnestly giving him advice. _You want a piece of this? You gotta tell someone._

Cody doesn't know if he wants a piece of this. He also knows most people won't listen. Quinn at least listens. Dexter sort of listens, but sometimes it seems like he's in another world. Maybe he always has been.

Nathan is different. He hadn't exactly been traumatized by the events over at Cody's house, but the first thing he did when they came back to his house was to make a huge bowl of tuna salad. He ate the entire thing, rinsed out the bowl, and began to carve off an enormous slab from a pan of fresh made brownies sitting on the counter.

"They'll yell at me for this." Nathan doesn't sound like he cares. He does sound more worried than Cody's ever heard him, or could ever imagine. He still looks exactly the same, tongue sticking from the corner of his mouth as he slathers a thick coat of peanut butter on top of his plate-sized brownie.

"You want some?" Nathan remains intensely concentrated on frosting his masterpiece cake.

"No thanks." Cody's not sure when he's going to be able to eat. Maybe never.

"That was your mom?" Nathan looks like he's still trying to unravel the mystery. "She's pretty."

"Yeah."

Cody doesn't know how his mom is back. It doesn't matter. All that does is holding onto her.

No matter what. 

"What was that?"

Cody swallows and lies. "I didn't hear anything."

"Like someone yelling." Nathan's voice is hushed. The only sound is the hum of the central air conditioning, fans softly blowing their cool refreshing breeze through every room in the house. "Is your aunt still next door?" 

"I think she left." Cody's already dreading the next words to come out of his friend's mouth. Nathan looks like he just had his best idea ever.

"That house on the other side of yours." Nathan points in the appropriate direction. "Is it still empty?"

Cody shakes his head.

"What do you mean, no?" Nathan is so confused, he almost looks irritated. Not his usual look. At least the being irritated.

"I'm not going out again." Cody's not sure if he means _until sunrise_ or _ever_.

"Dude." Nathan leans in, dropping his voice to the most confidential of whispers. "I saw this show once. Where this guy pretended to leave town? But the whole time he never left. He was right on the same block."

"That's TV." Cody doesn't sound convincing. Not even to himself.

"When that guy dragged your mom outside." Nathan looks like a teacher who's trying to get you to understand without their having to explain. "Did you hear a car?"

Cody shakes his head. "I don't remember."

"Did you hear like a motor? And tires, squealing?" Nathan imitates the sound, albeit at a lower than usual volume.

Cody wants to lie. "No."

"Then that's where she is." Nathan presents it like it's self-evident. "Gotta be."

Nathan's so sure he's right, it's scary. And right now, only one thing scares Cody more.

He's pretty darn sure himself.

  


* * *

  


She wasn't sure before. But it only takes a few blocks from the hospital before Lumen knows. Or rather, the nose knows.

Owen's smell had been mostly unfamiliar the first time her newly enhanced nose got a whiff. She'd been too distracted by the idea of fresh food without guilt, then enraged by its eluding her grasp. But after that second brawl, the actual physical contact between them, she's got that scent locked in. Could track him for miles.

She doesn't even really want to drain his pasty ass. Sure, it sounds good in theory. Especially when Lumen's never actually had a proper meal as a vampire, drinking straight from the source. But all her tough talk to Dexter had been just that. More an attempt to defuse Astor, distract father and daughter while venting her own frustration.

She'll find Owen easily. Scare the bejesus out of him; make him wish he never set foot in Miami. Then she can hand him over to the authorities, a babbling wreck whom no one will give a second thought. And she'll continue to do the right thing by bringing other-world Rita back safe and sound, whether it's to kill her man or give him a big fat kiss. Lumen's already contemplating the possibility of a threesome, just so she'll be prepared. It's not entirely unappealing, but things are complicated enough already.

At least her side has stopped bleeding. She throws the towel in a dumpster, hearing the scurry of rats as it lands with a sodden thump. 

Her feet feel like they're moving on their own. Each passing molecule of air seems to tickle the receptors in her nose, traveling up into her brain like a jolt of white lightning. Lumen turns off everything conscious, focusing on that one true scent. The one that leads to her man.

She doesn't realize she's running until she's been doing it for some time, ignoring the fading throb in her side. She's not positive, but she might be attracting attention, going faster than half the cars on the road. City fades into suburbs, the back yards like little football fields, each fence another hurdle in her path. The spring and tense of her body is a dream given flight, a perfect silence in her head.

She comes to a stop, briefly at a loss. She's not out of breath, but nothing looks familiar. Except --

Dexter's house.

She's not used to seeing it from behind, at this angle. She's on the neighbor's property one block over, standing on her tiptoes, peering over the fence. And the neighbor himself is on his back porch less than fifteen feet away, drinking a beer and gazing out over his lawn. No doubt enjoying the satisfaction of ownership and regular maintenance.

Lumen's about to wave when she realizes he can't see her. The security light doesn't reach this far, and she's completely concealed in the shadows. She hasn't even been trying to move quietly.

Owen's scent is stronger now. It might as well be a string of Christmas lights, leading her straight to him. She feels like she's gliding on air; a true apex predator, slithering unseen through the darkness. _Over the fence and through the yard, to Grandmother's house we go. To market to market, to buy a fat pig..._

Getting inside will be crucial. Losing the element of surprise could mean everything. For all her unfair advantages, all her supernatural strength and speed, one bad day -- even a sharp piece of wood -- can ruin anyone's life. Or end it.

Still, it's gratifying to know that Owen hasn't gone far. She can smell the woman now as well, on the back stoop, twice over. Once very recent; the other less so. Rita's been here before. Maybe hiding out, watching the house, before trying to kill Dexter.

There's no way Owen could have pulled this off without help. It makes her sick to think of the kind of sob story he had to have spun for that poor dupe of a pastor. If nothing else, that man's blood is absolutely on his hands.

Lumen knows from tragic experience that Florida homes generally don't have basements. Any nefarious business therefore usually takes place in the attic. As in her own household, for example.

She opens her nostrils and takes a big whiff. It's an odd sensation, pulling air in just for the smell alone. She could never get it to wiggle like Tabitha on Bewitched, but right now it feels like it's doing just that. Homing in on the telltale hearts that beat within this fragile human dwelling.

That cinches it. She can feel them up above. Two warm, luscious sacks of heavenly goodness. Just waiting to be drained of every drop...

She shakes her head, suppressing a growl. Much as she would dearly love to finally see what she's been missing, she's not here for blood. Not like this, anyway.

Because she can't see any way the unfolding tragedy could have been avoided. Postponed, at best. She could have sat in that bayside cafe, told Owen she'd joined up with a terrorist paramilitary organization. And he would have nodded, hands cradling his mug as he gazed at her with those watery earnest blue eyes and said something like: _It doesn't matter. As long as I'm with you._

The drain spout looks too unstable to climb. She's got a pretty good standing high jump, but probably not enough to get to the roof in one go. The garage for sure, and then the house. But only if she can do it quietly. Astor has been more of a handful for Lumen since she came back from the Slayer retreat in Scotland, but on the whole it's been a good thing. As long as they keep it a healthy competition, they enjoy testing each other's limits.

No time like the present.

She crouches, testing her legs. Even after all that running, they don't feel the least bit tired. Her night vision outlines the world in soft green glow as she measures the gap between her and the roof.

She springs nearly straight up. Just the right height, barely an inch above where she needs to be. She comes down into a perfect and silent three point crouch, fingers splayed.

Astor's right. She is a spooky ninja badass. They both are.

A vague uneasiness tickles her stomach. There aren't any attic windows on this side of the house. No way he can see her coming. Still, it probably wasn't the smartest idea to not bring backup. She and Astor could have gone in from opposite sides, trapped him in between. Even Dexter's mere human muscle would be appreciated, backed up as it is by decades of training and experience.

She'll go in from the left. That's the side with Dexter's house, which means less chance of being spotted. She can't believe the place isn't crawling with cops by now. Given the pastor's gruesome death, she's still not ruling it out.

The leap to the main roof is just as easy, except for the twinge of pain upon landing. Her fingers find the hole under her shirt. No fresh ooze or worrisome seepage. Just a constant throb, the itch of accelerated healing.

She ignores it and crouches low. Clinging tight to the shingles; crawling like a lizard, faster than she would have thought possible for silent movement. She reaches the edge and peers over.

The green glow inside is dim, but good enough to see by. Especially in concert with the smell of their blood, the thump of their combined pulses running slightly out of sync with each other. It's such a beautiful symphony, Lumen almost hates to interrupt.

She squirms out of her jacket and wraps it around her hand. It won't make it less noisy for the people inside, but it should help keep any neighbors from noticing.

The muffled shatter is louder than she expected. Before she can worry she's over the edge and inside, coming to rest atop a sprinkling of shards and slivers. 

"Oh, good." Owen sounds like he's taking charge right from the get go. He's crouching against the farthest wall to her right. "I was wondering if you'd show up this time."

Owen's glasses are missing, both his face and clothes torn and stained with everything from grass and mud to a suspicious dark red. But the worst part is Rita lying on the floor beside him. She's still wearing her white bathrobe; like Owen's shirt, somewhat the worse for wear. Her limbs are immobilized with an elaborate knotting of clothesline, a bloody shirt wrapped about her head to form a gag. The side of her face is swollen, covered in a light crust of dried blood.

"I'm definitely not going with you." Lumen swallows the urge for violence that suddenly demands an outlet. "Neither is she."

Owen turns slightly, revealing the gun in his hand. She can smell oil and metal; the red cells smeared across the surface.

"Do I need to state the obvious?"

He already sounds less sure of himself. That didn't take long.

"You haven't thought this through, have you?" Lumen doesn't want to laugh, but she can't help it. "Even if I couldn't snap your pencil neck before you pull the trigger --"

She stops at the ugly sound of a click.

"Did you always feel that way?" Owen's throat works as if to expel something vile. A whimper comes from Rita as he presses the cocked pistol to the base of her skull. "Did you ever have the slightest respect for me?"

"I've kind of lost some lately." Her side is hurting more. Something about the way she's tensing up. Then again, she's not the one who needs to relax. Rita's eyes are wide, forced open against every impulse to look away from her own imminent death.

Lumen thinks she could get to him that fast. Maybe. And maybe, when he calls her bluff, they find out she's not quite fast enough to prevent something ugly and permanent from taking place. Even allowing for jealousy, she's not playing those odds.

"So you kill her." Lumen sighs. "Then what?"

Owen looks ready to argue about nothing. She overrides his objection. Just like in high school, when they were both taking forensics.

"What's to stop me from doing whatever I want?" She takes a step forward, shifting into her other face. Watching his own turn paler still. "To you?"

"I guess..." Owen swallows as the barrel moves slowly down, stopping over a trembling kneecap. "I'd have to keep her alive."

"You son of a bitch." Lumen can feel herself quivering, straining at invisible chains. If he blinks, even just once, Dexter can take that Code and shove it where the sun doesn't shine. She'll throw this little do-good control freak right out the window into the goddamn street. Let the mob tear him to pieces, when they see what he's done.

"Sit down." Owen nods. "Right there."

Lumen starts to comply. "That's going to make a lot of noise --"

"SIT!"

Ice runs through her undead veins. "Not a fucking dog."

"No." Owen shakes his head, at a loss as she stares him down. "You're..."

She waits for him to finish. Finally she decides he never will, and slowly sinks to a more comfortable position. The throb in her side is back and she's really hoping he doesn't shoot her again. If anything, the pain is worse for knowing it won't kill her. And she's getting pretty damn thirsty.

Owen tosses something in her lap. She catches it by pure reflex, frowning down at the gift.

"I want you to inject yourself with that." Owen presents this as a normal and perfectly reasonable request. "Then we'll talk."

She can see the whites of their eyes, surrounded by blood shot. The sounds emerging from Rita's gag are clearly signals of distress, but their exact nature remains elusive. Lumen stares at the syringe sealed in plastic, the pale blue fluid inside that shimmers with a dull glow.

"What is it?" Lumen's not sure if Rita actually knows. Her reaction seems more general mistrust than anything specific. Then again, that seems more than appropriate.

"Tranquilizer." Owen's face is unreadable, covered in sweat. Lumen doesn't buy it for a minute. Neither does Rita, from the look on her face.

"I don't have any more clothesline." Owen actually does sound reasonable. For a change. "And you could probably break out of that."

"You're probably right." Lumen holds the syringe aloft as she stares at the contents. It's hard to fathom any mortal drug can hold sufficient power to sway the undead. But anything involving magic tends to happily ignore the empirical, as well as common sense. She's a creature of magic herself, and it still makes her nervous. It's like the only rule you can count on with magic is that none of the rules apply.

She looks back at Owen, sweaty and still. She can think of a number of reasons why he wouldn't want to kill her right away. None good.

Rita's screaming through the gag as the crinkle of plastic ripples through the air. One word, over and over. Even muffled beneath multiple layers of fabric, Lumen knows that word. She's screamed it herself, until her throat bled. To no avail.

"It's okay." She doesn't look down at the needle on her forearm. All her focus remains on Rita as the slim steel cylinder slides into her undead flesh; every ounce of her will bent upon conveying some tiny measure of reassurance, ignoring the chill slowly spreading through her like a spider bite. "It'll be okay."

It might be a fool's errand, trying to tell a mother of three any kind of a lie. No matter how beautiful.

But without hope?

They're as good as dead.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More aftershock for Astor. Miami Metro comes through in the clinch. Screaming into the abyss. Action Figure Cody. The purloined letter revealed. And the last of the main cliffhangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing is a little bit slower what with enjoying this nice cool summer, but still going better than ever before in my life. Book 3 is maybe a quarter to a third roughly sketched out. That's good enough to finish 2 here, but I'd like to have a bit more of 3 nailed down beforehand (*) so I can segue right into it without having to take too long a break. As it is, I'm sure I'll be taking at least a few days off once I post the final chapter of DiD -- maybe a week or two, both to work on the outline for book 3 and to attend to other matters.
> 
> (*) What I have now is the rough map, that doesn't include actual lines and a grid for chapter boundaries -- just four big rows representing the A, B, C and D plots. Then I start placing dots -- _this needs to happen around here_ , making connections and so forth. At some point, it goes from being vague and fuzzy to being clear enough that I can put down the grid and start getting specific about what happens in each chapter and scene.
> 
> * * *

The look on Astor's face makes me think of a medieval peasant about to be drawn and quartered. Even as the door swings shut, I can tell she's ready to run after Lumen. Whether it's to dissuade her or assist her in seeking revenge, I can't have that. I need her at my side.

"Think about this." I keep my voice low. The doctor and his team are reentering the dead man's room, looking only slightly less grim.

"We can't just go running off in some random direction," I continue. "We need something solid."

"Lumen's got a nose like a dog." Astor's frustration seems to leave her at a loss. She still looks sick to her stomach, her body in constant nervous motion without purpose. "She's probably already halfway there. Wherever that bastard is."

The doctor glances up from the bed with a frown.

"Let me handle this," I tell her. "Wait outside."

Part of it is the fact that I'm not raising my voice. But the intensity behind my words is somehow enough to get it through her natural teenage rebellion. Or the understandable desire of the Slayer to solve any problem with a perfectly placed punch, kick and a stake. Astor turns and disappears through the door, without another word.

The doctor's white hair and sagging jowls remind me of a mournful bulldog. He nods to the nurse, who pulls a sheet over the pastor's face and looks briefly uncertain before following Astor out the door. If the questions are about to start, it's better that I take the initiative.

"What happened to his shirt?" I look over at the body. "After it was cut off."

"Incinerated." The doctor's shrewd gaze says more than his tone.

"Biohazard." I nod, indicating my professional understanding. "Of course, that might be considered destruction of evidence."

"Possibly." He doesn't sound convinced. More like he's gauging my willingness to play along. "If someone came to me with the proper authority -- I'd have to show them whatever I had."

"That's what I thought," I say. "I have to go now."

"Wait --" He's giving me a business card. "This was in his pocket."

Everything about the card is interesting. But all the fanciness up front isn't half as interesting as the name scrawled on the back.

I hold out my hand. "Thank you, Doctor." 

Astor's pacing when I come out to the waiting room, making great oval loops around the chairs. She looks like someone's about to slap the cuffs on. I almost want to snap her out of it by throwing a knife at her face for her to catch. But we've already attracted more than enough attention for one night.

"You're right," I say, as we exit the building. "I'm not a cop. I'm a lab guy."

"Lab guy who knows jiu-jitsu." Astor doesn't sound like she's arguing. Just contradicting.

"But I do catch bad guys." I hit the remote as I pull out my phone. "And you know who is a cop."

Astor shuts the door, staring at her reflection in the side mirror. "Aunt Deb?"

"Kind of helps we don't have to hide this stuff anymore." I put the phone on speaker. "Let's see what she can do."

  


* * *

  


"Who's the best detective at Miami Metro?"

Harrison purses his lips in a raspberry before bursting into an open-mouthed chuckle. Deb heaves a sigh of disappointment.

"I think that sounded more like my name." Quinn holds up one fist in hopes of a bump. "Right, buddy?"

"Coey!" Harrison leans forward and wraps both arms around the fist, gazing up at Quinn.

"Well, it's Cody or Joey." Deb shrugs, feigning indifference. "And his brother has been living in Orlando almost a year."

"You think that was good for him?" Quinn's making little grunting noises as he pretends to lift Harrison entirely into the air. Harrison responds with shrieks of apparent delight and mock terror.

"I guess they both needed some time away." With no idea where this might lead, Deb has to tread carefully. "Him and Astor." 

"After their mom." Quinn delivers this confirmation in a casual tone, still not looking at her. "You miss your mom, buddy?"

"Jesus." Deb reaches out and grabs up an already squirming Harrison, barely avoiding his chubby fist in her face.

"What are you trying to do?" She glares at Quinn, trying to contain the flush of anger. "See how much fucking trauma he can remember?"

"I'm asking a normal fucking question." Quinn raises a warning eyebrow. "You gonna spill?"

Her anger fades to frustration, and then dismay. It probably looks the same to Quinn as he sits there watching her. Ever since Faith came into her life, it feels like Deb's been wearing emotions not just on her sleeve, but all the way down at the wrist. Totally on display, begging for the attention of any passing thief or vandal.

"She called me, you know." Quinn's still watching her face, searching for the slightest trace of acknowledgment on Deb's part. "I talked to her."

"Well." Deb laughs and shakes her head. "Guess that's that."

She's waiting for the rest of it. Except while she's waiting, her pocket erupts in a discordant jingling cacophony. It's the ringtone she assigned to Dexter a few months ago. All the rest were too cheerful.

"I brought Harrison down to the station." Deb delivers this into the phone, with a roll of the eyes to Quinn. "So if you're freaking out because we're not at the house --"

 _"Actually?"_ Dexter sounds a little excited. _"That's good."_

"What the fu--" Deb growls, making a dramatic clenching gesture. Quinn's trying not to laugh, even as he starts to look worried again.

 _"Need you to find someone,"_ Dexter interjects. Smooth as farting through silk. _"Shouldn't be too hard."_

"No go," Deb says. "Already talked to Quinn. He's got no plate on the car. And we can't find a credit card ding, rental records -- nothing. State wide."

 _"You might."_ Dexter chuckles. It's one of those rare occasions when the little bastard sounds like he actually means it.

"Quinn's on house arrest." Deb smiles at her partner, hoping to cushion the blow. "LaGuerta chained him to his desk. So even if he did meet this Hanson fuck anywhere but some public park --"

_"It's not Quinn."_

"That fucking shitweasel!" Deb fumes, already punching buttons. "When I get my hands on him --"

"One crisis at a time." Quinn still has bags under his eyes, but he's looking slightly less emotionally exhausted.

The click from the phone heralds one of her least favorite voices chiming in on the conversation. _"Masuka."_

"Vince? This is really important." Quinn doesn't try to sound menacing. "You ever talk to a guy named Owen Hanson?"

 _"Sure."_ The reply is instant, followed by a pregnant pause. _"Am I in trouble?"_

"No more than me," Quinn replies. "And where'd you meet him?"

 _"Here in my office?"_ Masuka sounds confused and suspicious. Like it shouldn't have been this easy.

"There." Deb's already scrolling through the visitor logs. Parking lot camera footage comes next. And there, in glorious color and hardly fuzzy at all, is an almost head on frontal view of a Minnesota license plate.

"I've got this." She scribbles down the number, flashing a smile. "You just keep an eye on that nephew of mine."

"Long as I can keep one on you." Quinn throws her a wink, so quick she almost misses it. "I do love watching you work."

  


* * *

  


When you've done all you can, life is a waiting game.

He used to have more patience. Once upon a time, once he'd finally managed to put the tears and fears and frustrations of childhood behind him for good, Owen had gained a vague reputation as nigh unflappable. Although every so often, it would happen that some sort of minor crisis would leave a dent in his otherwise perfect and polished exterior. Never any lasting damage in the eyes of others, but enough for him to question his own integrity. And not in the sense of honesty, but rather _stability_. Normal functioning.

The opposite of falling apart.

Pieces of himself have been crumbling away. Bit by bit, ever since that day in the church. As afternoon stretched into evening with still no Lumen, Owen had felt himself going from anxiety to pure bewilderment and outrage. And not a single day from then on has given him one moment's respite. No matter how much progress he's made in his self-appointed quest, however much knowledge he scrapes and gains by whatever painful means, things just refuse to make sense. In fact, they seem stubbornly bent upon making less of it every minute.

He needs to wait for the injection. According to the pastor, it takes a while to kick in. But nothing's happening. She's not even wearing her real face.

"Why did you do that?"

He's not sure if she heard him. The other woman has fallen silent under his gun, but her screams still echo in Owen's mind. He's not expecting thanks by the time this is all over. And he's not even sure who should be the one walking out of here. Maybe none of them.

"You mean what you told me to?"

Lumen's voice is soft. It doesn't make her sardonic tone any more bearable.

"Yes." Owen's finger feels too heavy, but he doesn't dare move. The least slip or hesitation right now will inevitably lead to more tragedy. The only way a bullet comes from that barrel is if he decides to make it so.

"Calculated risk." Lumen has her legs folded underneath, Indian-style, both hands resting on her knees. As if they're sitting around a campfire, toasting marshmallows.

"Whatever's in that shit?" Lumen nods at the empty syringe lying on the floor between them. "I can probably handle it better than her."

Owen looks down at the woman at the other end of his gun. "Why was she your prisoner?"

A little snort of amusement. "Not my prisoner."

His hackles are rising under her gaze. Getting into a staring contest with Lumen Pierce would be as much a losing proposition as a forensic debate. And that was before becoming a vampire.

"What were you doing with her?"

"I was going to fuck her." The obscenity rolls from Lumen's lips, her words in a nonchalant cadence. "And make you watch."

He can't keep looking at her. It's almost worse not to.

"Do you want me to kill you?" He has to ask. It doesn't seem that farfetched.

"Hardly." Lumen still glares at him, but her calm is beginning to suffer. He can see the subtle tremors in her muscles; the rising pain and discomfit in her eyes.

"Because I don't know if that stuff will kill you." He has to be as honest as he can. "But I need answers."

Lumen's smirk becomes a sneer. "And I need a drink." 

Her smirk disappears as Owen pulls out a stake.

"Guess the time for talk is over." She looks less scared than disappointed, in either or both of them. "You know how to use that thing?"

"I don't have to do it yet." He lets that hang, as he tries to gauge her resistance. "I could do it if you ask me to."

A chuckle comes from the vampire.

"You're going to torture me." Lumen's near-monotone holds a vague edge of sarcasm. "Really."

"I --" The thought makes him sick. Makes him think of things involving teeth or toenails. Things unspeakable, unforgivable.

"I don't know." Owen has to be honest. "Would there be any point?"

Lumen shrugs. "Whatever gets you off."

Owen bites back the immediate and logical retort. None of this has been the least bit fun, not even a little. Except for the pulled pork sandwich. But it's all downhill from there.

"My friend had a spray bottle in his travel bag." He can see it in his head, before and after Philip had crammed it full of weapons and other supplies. "I think it's still out in the car."

Lumen looks left and right, peering around the attic. "This place could use a few green growing things."

"He was a good man," Owen snaps. He's already regretting the outburst. He can't let her get the upper hand.

Her pale face is unreadable. "Better than you know."

Owen has no idea what she means. He thinks he should be appalled. She's only trying to rattle him. Gain control of his emotions. 

"I didn't eat him," Lumen adds. "If that's what you were wondering."

"He told me some people fill it with holy water." He concentrates on the thin piece of metal beneath his finger. On the body of the woman he's using, to hold another at bay. "If they need to interrogate someone."

"Someone?" Lumen chuckles. "So vampires are someones."

"It's a very fine nozzle." He tries to ignore her. "They spray it from a few feet away. Let just a faint mist fall on a vampire's skin."

He remembers every detail of Philip's anecdotes. The pastor had been a wealth of practical insight, ever ready with a quip or encouraging word to counter even the darkest wisdom. 

"And if they put a fan in the room?" Owen shakes his head, dismayed by his own mental vision. "Even for someone who doesn't breathe -- it's not pretty."

"Sounds like a swell bunch of friends." Lumen is clearly unimpressed. Her false breathing is more labored now, in and out through her nose in short little bursts whenever she isn't speaking. "Why don't you go get it?"

It's forensics all over again. He can feel himself grinding his teeth. He literally can't afford that. Not when he just got a new crown.

"Why don't you attack me?" That seems simple enough.

"Why bother?" Lumen's still sitting up, knuckles growing whiter as her grip tightens.

The dust between the floorboards is making the back of his nose itch. It drips and burns down the back of his throat, encouraging the brimming moisture under his eyelids to spill forth in a gusher of shame and submission.

"Why would you go through this?" He can barely see through the haze of tears, the faint illumination from the streetlamps outside. "A soulless creature who only cares about herself?"

Lumen's laugh is weak. Full of amusement, at her own absurdity. As though she's only just beginning to realize the extent of it.

"Because maybe it's not that simple."

A muted cry of pain comes from the other woman as Owen stands. His legs are numb in spots, tingling in others, half-asleep and starved for oxygen.

He stumbles and comes to a stop, towering over Lumen. The tiny vessels in her eyes are a network of red as she stares up at him. It's as though everything inessential about her has been burned away, leaving behind the indestructible core. He's always known it was there. Thought he was the only one who could see.

Her hair is up in a ponytail. Just like always, but in a single braid. Her clothes are dark -- darker than he remembers ever seeing, from the near-black jeans to the navy blue long sleeved shirt. An ugly stain the size of a silver dollar adorns the shirt, just to the right of where he remembers her belly button. She'd always been stunning, whether in a bikini or the one piece she usually preferred. And her eyes are as beautiful as the rest of her. The same as she ever was.

Exactly the same.

"Do it." Lumen's voice is a gasp of pain. Her body quivers from the strain of holding herself upright. "If you're going to."

Incoherence boils in his guts, desperate to be free. He hates how she looks at him. Hates everything about her, from her super strength to her smug superiority. Or the pity she doesn't bother to conceal.

"Tell me why." Owen doesn't care that he's using his left hand to hold the stake. He still has the gun in his right. "Why did you leave?"

"It was my time." Lumen doesn't blink as the pointed end comes to rest against her skin. Just like when they met in that little cafe by the bay, her refusal is undeniable. As well as her love.

Another spasm of pain causes her to slump over. She forces her gaze upward, holding onto his shoulder to stay upright.

"Tell me why!" A bass drum pounds between his eyes, above and behind his field of vision. He doesn't feel strong enough to keep holding the stake. The more force he tries to exert, the weaker his grip becomes. His body feels ancient, ready to topple over and crumble to dust.

"You sure know the way to a girl's heart."

Lumen's chuckle reaches him through a sea of flames inside his skull. She sounds even closer to death than he feels. And a hell of a lot more prepared.

"Show it to me!" Owen's desperate scream echoes in the tiny room. His hand wobbles, the splintered end of the stake leaving behind a scant drop of red upon her chest. _"Show me your real face!"_

"This is me." Her voice is gentle, and stubborn beyond understanding. Her cold hand comes to rest on his, shaking and covered in sweat. "It always was."

Somehow, Owen tears himself loose. He can't even breathe. Every remaining piece of him screams in silent denial as he staggers away, sinking to the floor in a twitching heap of flesh, feeling the waves of despair closing over his head.

There's nothing left. Not for him. Not here; not anywhere. All his efforts, gone for less than naught. An entire column in the negative.

Nothing but red.

  


* * *

  


Cody's still glad he didn't eat any of that brownie. At least with the peanut butter. Maybe if they end up dying, he'll be more sorry about not eating it. For now, it feels like he made the right decision.

"I can't see anything." He can barely hear his own whisper. They're on the roof of Dexter's garage, lying prone like snipers, watching the vacant house on the other side.

"I don't have the night vision thing," Nathan whispers back. "They want like six hundred bucks. And that's short range."

It was worth a try. But this means going from recon to infiltration. Which means more potential danger than Cody or his borrowed clothes can handle.

He's about to object when Nathan raises one hand, shushing him down. Cody hates it when people do that.

Except he hears it too. A strange man, yelling somewhere. Maybe the one who broke in. It sure sounds like it.

Nathan is scrambling down off the roof. Quick enough he makes actual noise, even with all his ninja skills. Cody's about to freak when he realizes he can still hear yelling. At that volume, whoever's doing it won't hear this little bit of rustling. Not all the way out here.

He still has to make himself do it.

It's like he's watching himself in a movie as he sits on the edge. Heaves off with his hands, pushes his feet into the air to clear the fence then lands in a crouch and rolls, like Nathan and all those cool action stars. It's a a shock to his knees and the grass is itchy but Cody springs up from the ground, using all that momentum as he lands to keep running without pause, across the yard to the house in a frantic dash. He can imagine snipers on every rooftop, a river of snakes even now swarming from the grass beneath his feet. It's not half as scary as the thought of what awaits him in that house. And even that can't stop him now.

He comes to a halt beside Nathan, the two of them pressed up against the outside wall. His heart is pounding almost as hard and fast as earlier tonight when he crawled into his mother's arms. Hugged with all his might, until he thought it would explode.

Something crunches under his foot.

Cody looks down. As he pushes his sneaker into the lawn, there's a light snap and another crunch. Like glass.

Nathan grabs his arm. Cody looks over to see his friend pointing up.

At a broken window, far above.

  


* * *

  


I'm expecting Astor to argue with me over having to sit in the parking lot and wait for a call. If for no other reason, I wouldn't think she feels like being anywhere near a hospital at the moment. I have plenty of arguments in my favor, from wasting gas to the odds of whatever direction we pick being the right one. She just sits turned away from me, staring out the window.

I don't try to think of something to say. I've already done all I can in that department. One way or another, we'll find where Owen has got to. Then we'll see if there's any more talking to be done. I think part of me hopes that there isn't.

But only for the thought of what I might do in retaliation.

After I killed my brother, it took over two months to find my groove again. To get back into the swing of things. Now I have to struggle to recall the last time I took the life of another human being. Ever since Astor showed up on my doorstep last year, a stake in her pocket and complaining about bad dreams, the demon world has been my exclusive hunting ground. And right from the start, I've never looked back. Never once yearned for the good old days.

I realize my fingers are drumming on the steering wheel. Astor is looking at me. Not with any particular rancor, merely waiting for me to become aware. I acknowledge her with a nod and a grimace: _Touché._

A brief flicker of sympathy crosses her face before she goes back to looking out the window. The view is unexciting, but it could be worse. All I get is the wall of a building.

I don't know why I'm so concerned. Apart from sunlight and sharp pieces of wood, Lumen has little to worry about. She can defend herself nearly as well as a Slayer. If anything, I should be worried about Owen. Especially with this much evidence leading right back to me. To us.

But even as a vampire, Lumen is nothing more than a trained amateur. What the Watchers call a fledgling. She's still struggling to keep up with Astor every time they spar. And we have no idea what kind of power Owen has on hand.

And then there's Rita.

Talk about another story. I don't even know this Rita's story. All I know is that when she looks at me, I see something I hoped I would never see on that face. I also know that it doesn't matter. Not to me; certainly not to my kids. I think even Harrison would agree.

Astor jerks in her seat at the rattle and buzz of my phone, vibrating against the console. She's still hyperventilating as I pick it up.

"Yes?"

_"Who's your favorite sister?"_

"Not you," I reply.

 _"I'm hurt."_ Quinn does sound at least moderately offended. 

_"Quit fucking around,"_ Deb snaps in the background. _"Dex? You need to get back to your place."_

"What's going on?" I'm starting to automatically assume the worst. "Is Cody all right?"

 _"I don't know."_ Deb sounds like she hadn't thought of that. _"But that car you're looking for is right next door to your house."_

I can't think of any way Owen could have made off with an unconscious woman on foot. Any vehicle short of stealth technology, we would have heard. Of course, I was just a little busy at the time being unconscious myself. And everyone else was somewhat preoccupied as well.

The house on the other side of ours is still on the market. Last I knew, anyway. I'd been meaning to investigate to see if Rita had been using it for a base of operations. 

"We're on our way." I toss the phone to Astor, raising my voice. "Thanks, sis."

 _"Hey, I pushed plenty of keys."_ Quinn's mockery softens to something more cynical. Almost affectionate. _"God fuckin' speed, Morgan."_

_"You gonna feel him up too?"_

Astor hangs up with a grimace. I'm glad I don't have to understand that last comment from Deb. Or try to explain it.

"Buckle up." I suit actions to words, glancing over at Astor. "And try not to lose your head."

"I'm not the vampire in this family." Astor delivers this with a meaningful glare.

"No," I reply. "It'll still probably kill you." 

The teen rebellion is back, in full force and effect. It makes a nice contrast with Astor's obvious struggle to acknowledge the truth of my argument. She's always been more comfortable taking advice from me on which knife to use for dissecting a demon, or the best ways to disable and injure. Or kill.

"All right."

Astor nods as her seat belt clicks in. 

"Let's go."

  


* * *

  


The pain isn't the worst of it. At least from a physical standpoint. Neither is the inability to move. In terms of pure bodily sensation, it's the blood drying on her face that's driving Rita out of her mind. Which she has to admit is a funny way of putting it.

Unfortunately, that's where the humor ends.

In some ways, it might be worse having to bear witness than to endure these things herself. Bad enough the escalating argument between two strangers, with an obvious lifetime of their own shared history. But her nerves are scoured bloody and raw from the rapid breakdown of her captor, the rising tension and fear of her fellow prisoner's imminent execution.

For the little she actually knows, Rita can tell she's been growing fond of Lumen. Even before this rescue attempt gone wrong. Before the vampire had demonstrated the full measure of loyalty with whatever unknown poison she had willingly injected into herself. Rita wants nothing more than for the two of them to walk out of here together. But if she has to watch this woman die -- regardless of the semantics involved -- there's no hope of forgiveness in her heart. Not with all the cumulative stress it's already suffered.

She'd been more than ready to give the whole 'nice guy' speech. Not that it always works. There was always the chance. But she can see the outcome more clearly than ever. She would tell him he didn't want to do this; that he was a good person. He would probably start to cry. Tell her that he knew perfectly well he wasn't. That he was just someone trying to do the right thing. And she'd say: _Then let us go._

And it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Whatever way out from normal he might have taken, this man is too far gone. And she's done extending a helping hand only to have it smacked in return. Or cut off.

She can make him out on the floor, a few feet past Lumen, both of them curled up like pillbugs. Lumen's tremors have increased in severity, her outward expression of pain no more than the smallest occasional moans. And their mutual captor sounds like he's choking on his own tongue.

"God damn you." The feeble whisper from Lumen accompanies the sound of her fingernails dragging across the floor. "What did you do to me?"

Rita's not expecting any kind of response. But the man's sobs are tapering off. He raises his head, as if weighed down by countless chains.

"I don't know what it was." He sounds more broken than either of them. "He only said it would make a vampire long for death."

He turns and shambles away. A classic movie zombie in glorious monochrome, descending and disappearing through a door-shaped hole in the floor. His hollow words echo behind.

"Even if they did survive."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lumen fights for her unlife. Dexter talks to a sane and rational adult. Storming the castle to rescue the princess, again and again. Everything is illuminated. Action Figure Cody wants his mom. Dexter talks to another sane and rational adult, and one a bit less so. The Slayer's time to shine. And Dexter's second confession inspires the most unlikely subject. It's all here, in the antepenultimate installment of: **The Devil In Disguise**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too surprised that I got this done so quickly. Maybe a little. Especially considering I screwed around half the day having non-writing fun. But just like the pivotal scenes in **The Devil You Know** , I've been planning and looking forward to this one for a while. And just like then, I think the result is pretty darn good.
> 
> Best part for me: The callbacks to book 1, and the subtle foreshadowing for 3. Let me know if you think you spot it.
> 
> * * *

During her time in captivity as a plaything for others, Lumen came to know pain. And the psychological aspect was always the worst part. What they did to her body was bad enough. A bunch of bored little boys, treating her and twelve other women like some Barbie doll they could throw away when they grew tired. The ultimate in disposability.

But the physical pain was almost nothing compared to everything else. The situation itself. What they said to her, how they gloated in her suffering. How it gradually dawned on her that there would be no escape. That she would die like all the rest, left to rot while the world spun on without her. Her friends and family would wonder, for a time, where Lumen Pierce could possibly have run off to without telling a soul. Some might even try to find her. And another woman with blonde hair would take her place in this dingy and bloodstained room, waiting to die.

She'd given up all hope. Even prayed for death. And then the most unlikely of angels had appeared, wielding a razor-sharp knife.

Now she's a vampire. In a completely different attic. Being tortured by her obsessive stalker of an ex-fiancee. Technically, Lumen supposes they're still engaged. After all, they never broke it off. They just never got married.

She shouldn't have been so cavalier. Whatever Owen has convinced her to shoot herself up with is not a trifling matter. It figures he'd learn just enough to be dangerous. He always was a quick study. And the pain is finding new ways to reach new levels, every tick of the invisible watch bringing fresh tendrils of agony.

"I could..." She giggles, realizing Owen's already left. "I could pay you back... for the reception..."

Someone tries to say something. It's not her. Whoever it is seems to be having even more trouble forming words than Lumen herself.

She opens her eyes. The green glow that normally lights the world in her night vision is fading, taking on the sepia tone of a Victorian photograph. She's on her side, shivering like a plague victim as she tries to roll over.

She's still mad at Owen. And yet she can't bring herself to hate him. Hates herself almost as much, for feeling even the tiniest spark of empathy. Not sympathy -- for all those vaunted good intentions, the poor bastard's made his own bed. But he's completely broken. No Dexter to help him claw his way out of the pit, back into the light.

She fantasizes about a miracle cure. Or just fighting through the pain. Going downstairs and ripping his head off, before whatever this is can make her die screaming. After everything Lumen's been through, she'll be fucked in half if she goes out on her knees.

She finally manages to roll over. A little cry of pain escapes her as she looks up to see Rita's frantic gaze, the streaks of dried blood coating one side of her face.

There it is. The strength to move.

From somewhere, Lumen dredges up the will.

Every nerve is on fire. She drags herself across the floor; every inch of the way an epic adventure. But Owen's underestimation of her will be his downfall. If nothing else, she can free Rita from her bonds. Then they'll see what happens next.

She wishes she could find pleasure in watching him bleed.

  


* * *

  


"Call Giles." The highway isn't far, but I'm still judging whether the back way to the house might be quicker. "On speaker."

Beeps and boops resound from my phone. I find myself praying Giles hasn't been called away. If we have to deal with Andrew again, I may climb through the wire and murder him myself.

 _"Dexter."_ A smooth and relaxing English accent. I hear Astor breath a sigh of relief. _"Have you gotten anywhere?"_

"Too many places." I go for the on-ramp at the last. "What can you tell me about a Father Andrew Cardoza? Here in Miami?"

 _"Fine man, if memory serves."_ Giles chuckles at some secret humor. _"A bit unorthodox."_

"And this sister mission of theirs, in South America." I pick up speed to merge, checking the rearview. "Do you know anything about the research they've been doing?"

 _"Very cutting edge, as I understand."_ Giles sounds more focused now. I can hear him leafing through papers, the occasional clacking of keys. _"And at least potentially problematic."_

"What's that mean?" Everyone seems to have a different definition.

 _"One report mentioned bioweapons. Targeted to various demons."_ Giles clucks his tongue, in disapproval or admiration. _"Is there anything specific you're looking for?"_

"Cardoza had an assistant." I speed up to pass a semi. If I'm lucky, I can stay in this lane all the way to the exit. "And this guy had something they made down there. We don't know what. Experimental -- doesn't work right away. That's it."

 _"Let me see."_ More clicking and leafing. _"And I take it your first interest would be anything pertaining to vampires?"_

"Got it in one." We're ten minutes from the exit. Assuming I don't get pulled over.

_"One moment."_

The moment stretches into two. I can still hear the sounds of activity as it becomes three. Astor stares at the road before us, watching it disappearing under our wheels. 

_"There."_ The focus sharpens to a keen edge. _"A series of trial runs. All variations on -- oh dear."_

"What?" I've learned that tone from Giles is never good. Especially when he uses those words.

 _"Interfector Mortis."_ Giles pronounces it like a curse, or a virus. _"The Killer of the Dead."_

"What does it do?"

 _"One of the only poisons known that can kill a vampire."_ The weary voice suggests that Giles has personal experience. _"And who knows which of these you might be dealing with. They all have some sort of uniquely nasty twist."_

"What can we do?" Astor leans over the phone with her fists clenched. It's nice to see her show a little concern for Lumen. I hope it's more that than frustration with the senior Watcher. "Anything?"

 _"In point of fact?"_ Giles sounds like he's reading a mile-long list at a wake. _"Yes."_

The atmosphere in the car is taking on a marked chill as Giles explains just what the cure for _Interfector Mortis_ entails. Assuming you can find a willing Slayer, it doesn't sound too bad. Then again, I'm not the Slayer. And there's the whole need for a transfusion.

I realize I'm speeding. Astor pokes me in the arm, hard enough to hurt.

 _"Dexter?"_ British concern sounds so much more concerned. _"Are you there?"_

"I was just thinking," I remark, as I slow down for the exit. "I'm glad I'm one of the parents you can talk to."

_"Indeed."_

"I have to go." I nod to Astor. "I'll call as soon as I can."

The harsh white lights of the highway are fading, replaced by residential yellow. I make a bare minimum stop for the cameras and then a hard right, pulling onto the street. Less than half a mile to the house.

I remember coming home from disposing of Trinity. Peace in my heart, and a spring in my step. Only to be confronted by a nightmare turned real.

This Rita wears at least some of her scars out in the open. Right across her face, with hints of more beneath her robe. Lumen hadn't mentioned anything of the sort. She still bears her own, on her back and shoulders. Courtesy of the men motivated by Jordan Chase.

I come to a stop at the corner of Kendall and Meadow. The block seems quiet, but our house is halfway down.

A dog starts to bark as we drive past. Not many people parked out front. The latest neighborhood bulletin mentioned break-ins.

The light is out in front of our house, but not the next door vacant. I can see a car in the driveway. Even without the plate, I recognize it from the police station parking lot. I pass three more houses before pulling up to the curb, shutting off the lights as we come to a stop.

Astor unbuckles, giving me one of those complex looks. This one is both child and grownup; commander and obedient soldier. I know all too well the origins of the pall of death that shrouds her gaze. She'd already been forced to grow up fast, thanks to Rita's boyfriend Paul having beaten the crap out of her mom on a regular basis. And after finally allowing herself to be convinced that things had gotten better with me as stepfather, she'd lost her mother in a brutal and seemingly random murder. Compared to all that, discovering her destiny as a Slayer was a blessing in disguise.

Of course the Slayer gig hasn't been all fun and games. Neither has her finding out more of just who I truly am. But as rough as things have gotten, I can't imagine that anything could come between us.

Don't want to imagine.

"You go in back." I nod to her, my hand on the latch. "I'll take the front."

Astor returns the nod. She slips out of the car with a whisper of motion, gone before I can think to say more.

I retrieve the mini mag-light from the glove box. Then I climb out and shut the door as gently as I'm able. Astor has already disappeared as I look round, turn and begin to stroll down the sidewalk. Just another citizen. A friendly neighborhood resident.

Perfectly normal.

  


* * *

  


He wonders if she's dead yet.

He hopes so. He can't go back up there until she's gone. Of course, there's the little question of how long it will take.

How much she might suffer.

He should have thought of that earlier. It feels like he did. He just didn't care. Now Owen is too far down his chosen path to retreat, or turn aside. Or stop, or slow down, or anything other than continue to stumble forward.

Try not to fall.

He can hear soft sounds of scraping, coming from upstairs. He's left them alone together.

And there's someone at the back door. Trying to break in. No. The front --

He turns and runs for the door to the attic. Slams it shut behind him and turns the bolt, crawling up the stairs; crying out more than once as he bangs his knees. It's made even more difficult by the gun in his hand. Funny that's still there.

He clears the attic floor. Only to find his former prisoner free and standing, stripping away the last of the ropes. Lumen writhes on the floor at the woman's feet, hissing through her teeth. A thin stream of saliva runs down the corner of her mouth.

He hasn't thought of it until now. But as he sees the fear and anger, the naked anguish and torment on the faces of the women he tried to save, Owen feels the click.

And it all makes sense.

  


* * *

  


I'm on the front steps of the house next door, pretending to fumble with my keys while I try to pick the lock. It's not going quite as smoothly as I'm used to. For one thing, I'm in a hurry.

I hear something out back that sends vibrations through the entire house. Astor must have decided to go the quick route. A rapid clatter inside tells me to do the same.

It only takes a quick blow from the mini mag to smash the windowpane closest to the deadbolt. I reach in and flip the bolt, barely able to avoid cutting my arm from the speed I'm moving at. And none of it seems anywhere near fast enough.

I kick open the door. Fumbling for real, until I manage to hit the switch on the mag. Astor's eyes shine the light back at me as she enters the living room from the opposite side.

The noise intensifies, the sound of a desperate and cornered quarry on the move. Our eyes slide and lock upon a plain door in the center of the living room wall. It's also the center of the house.

Astor walks up, grabs hold and heaves. I don't know if she's trying to pull the door open or entirely off. Instead, the knob comes off in her hand.

I have to laugh. Astor gives me a dirty look, then turns and drives her fist through the paneling. I wince at the thought of splinters. She's already grabbing the door, pulling it loose from the frame at all three points. I hear what I think are screws from the hinges, hitting the floor and rolling away.

Astor hurls her prize to one side, resulting in the loudest din yet. I have to think someone is calling the police by now. I have got to teach her how to be more subtle.

I join her at the foot of the stairs. The two of us peer cautiously up through the shattered doorway, as far as possible without sticking our heads inside.

A plaintive, questioning voice comes from above. "Dexter?" 

_"Mom!"_ Astor bolts up the stairs. I feel like the world's oldest dad as I follow behind, trying not to stub every one of my toes.

The air is stifling as we enter the attic space. I aim the mag around the room, squatting low under the rafters. My knees are protesting louder than ever, but it's better than smacking my head. Or bending over, leaving myself even more vulnerable.

The mag beam comes to rest on Lumen, huddled on the floor. An endless series of spasms undulate througout her body. The noises coming from her remind me of the terminal cancer patients when Deb and I would visit Harry in the hospital.

Rita crouches over Lumen, holding her close as she watches Owen, sitting a few feet from them. The side of her face is coated with flaked and drying blood, somewhat recently and poorly scrubbed away. An ugly mark of impact shows where a spectacular bruise will no doubt blossom by morning.

Assuming we all live through this. Certain individuals notwithstanding.

As for Owen, he's barely moving. He doesn't even blink when I shine the light in his face. Astor looks ready to tackle him when she sees the gun, dangling loosely from his fingers.

Another standoff. Five people facing one another in awkward silence. It's like a freshman dance where nobody wants to make the first move. Or the old chestnut from a mystery author's protagonist: _I suppose you're wondering why I've called you all here..._

"Too late." Owen's muttering under his breath. He seems transfixed by the flashlight, staring into it like the heart of a sun. "Dead woman walking. Too late..."

"Watch him." I don't wait to see if Astor obeys. I kneel down and put my hand to Lumen's forehead. It's warmer than usual. Still cool for a human, with a touch of clammy moisture that feels like sweat. 

"No!"

Owen's gun is pointed at my chest. Both his hands are raised, elbows slightly bent in a proper stance, without a hint of visible tremor. He still looks stark raving bonkers, as Astor might say. Enough that she remains perfectly still. She's just short enough she doesn't need to crouch. She stands with her knees slightly bent as she watches Owen like a trained raptor, ready to pounce.

More standoff.

Except all of us can hear something. What sounds like movement on top of the roof. In two different places, moving further apart.

Toward the windows.

  


* * *

  


The roof is a scary place this high up. Especially now that Cody has some idea what to expect. Not just from climbing around on it, but what they might find inside.

They can hear almost all the action. Not the words. Those are too muffled and indistinct. But that's his mom yelling Dexter's name. His sister, yelling back.

This is a horrible idea. And it's the only way. If they both try to go in the same window, whoever's inside can pick off the first one to come through. Wait for the second. Rinse, lather, repeat. So they rock paper scissored to see who would go through the window on Dexter's side of the house. He thinks Nathan cheated, but only to save Cody from having to go through that broken glass.

There's even less light on this side. And the window is stuck. It won't budge, no matter how hard he tries. And his grip on the overhang is beginning to weaken.

Cody doesn't want to fall. There's no side roof. Nothing between him and the cold hard ground, a whole two and a half stories below. If he does it'll be straight down, and he won't roll and bounce back up like Nathan. He could break a whole bunch of bones. Maybe all of them.

His heart stops at the scrape and dragging sound. His grip falters. For a moment, Cody totters on the edge.

Then the window opens. Astor is grabbing him, pulling him inside. Hugging so tight he can't breathe.

"Whoa!" Nathan's exclamation comes from the other side of the attic. He sounds even more taken aback than earlier this evening.

"Let me go!" Cody squirms like a whole pack of puppies, unable to break free from that iron grip. "I want my mom --"

He stops at the sight of her over Astor's shoulder. Feeling the bottom fall out of his guts as his horrified eyes take in the mask of blood; Rita's own realization of the source of his terror.

"It's okay, honey." Rita shakes her head. Imploring him to stay right where he is, in his sister's arms. "It's gonna be okay."

Cody doesn't see how. Not with Lumen lying there twitching and sweating, looking even more really and for sure dead. Teetering on the brink. Ready for anything to put an end to her suffering.

Dexter is smart. And he knows a lot about blood. Maybe that's why he knows so much about vampires. But Lumen looks really sick. And Dexter just looks helpless. The same as when he wore the mouse ears and told them Mom died.

Someone's phone is ringing. Nothing else about the situation is funny. But Cody has to giggle at the sight. Everyone's looking around at each other, like they're trying to figure out who farted.

Dexter stands, ducking under the rafters as he pulls out his phone. It makes Cody giggle again. Nathan's giving him a funny look.

Dexter glares at each of them in turn. His glare fades as he looks down at Lumen, putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

  


* * *

  


I can't believe I'm taking a call right now. I know it could be useful information, but as far as Lumen is concerned, we already know what she needs. Or think we do.

 _"Dex? Got someone on the line."_ Deb sounds like a harried secretary. _"Just a sec."_

Vince likes to joke about people being tired of secs. I wish he was here. We could use a little levity.

 _"Dexter."_ The voice is male, with all the authority and wisdom of its obvious years. _"My name is Father Cardoza."_

"Evening, Father." I put him on speaker and set the phone on the floor. "I'm afraid you caught us at a bad time."

_"Is he there?"_

Owen starts at the sound of that voice. He stares at the phone with a look of rapidly growing horror.

"Right here, Father." I look up at Owen, trying to gauge the likelihood of him snapping. "Care to say a few words?"

 _"Owen?"_ Cardoza's voice is louder. He sounds like he's wandering through a fog bank in search of someone. _"My son?"_

Owen tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling. I'm watching his grip on the gun. It's still firm enough I won't risk an attempt at disarming him. As quick on the draw as Astor can be, I wouldn't want her trying it either.

"He did it," I say. A sympathetic squeeze grips my heart as Lumen shudders in pain. "I think I'm looking at it right now."

 _"The Killer of the Dead."_ The priest delivers this confirmation in a solemn tone. _"And you know of the cure?"_

"I do." I glance over at Astor. She's still holding Cody. Both of them are staring at the proceedings, with decidedly differing reactions.

"It doesn't matter." Owen dredges up a groan from deep in his chest. "Even if you save her, it doesn't matter! You hear me?"

Lumen's spasms are growing weaker. Rita sits with the vampire's head in her lap, stricken at her inability to help. She keeps looking between Lumen and the rest of us, silently pleading for some kind of salvation.

 _"Lumen."_ Cardoza raises his voice yet again. It's the booming, stentorian tones of a lifetime in command at the pulpit. _"My child. Can you hear me?"_

Her face is covered in light pink sweat, her eyes glazed over with pain. But I see a flash of recognition.

"She can hear you," I say. I watch Owen's fingers.

 _"If you are cured of this poison,"_ Cardoza continues. _"If you survive -- I can tell you what will happen. Mister Giles has shown me the report. And I know exactly which formula we were given."_

I don't know if he's waiting for permission. "Go on."

_"It was a recombination with the alpha-gal molecule --"_

_"What the hell?"_ Deb mutters. _"Sounds like some disease Vince would get."_

"Don't mind her," I interject. "You were saying?"

_"The bite from a tick often carries this molecule. It causes a permanent allergy to red meat."_

I can think of a few people who would rather be dead. "And this version?"

 _"It also results in a permanent allergic reaction."_ Cardoza sounds like an oncologist breaking the bad news. _"To human blood."_

Silence descends. Except for the breathing; the mild static on the other end of the line.

_"Hello?"_

I don't know what that noise is. But then I realize. Lumen is laughing. Through a galactic ocean of pain, right in Owen's baffled and uncomprehending face. 

"You dumbass!" Astor looks furious at his sheer stupidity. "Talk about useless!"

"Not on a regular vampire," I point out. "But it's not exactly the end of the world."

Lumen's still laughing, but she's starting to look pissed off. I can imagine being annoyed at having my favorite option removed from the table.

Astor turns to Owen. "So now what?"

He stares back at her. Every weak chuckle from Lumen, now slowly tapering off, seems to drive a fresh nail into his cortex.

"What else can you do?" Astor shrugs, looking back at Rita. "Kill her?"

My mind goes blank. For a mere instant, all I can see is red.

The sound of more than one scream pulls me back out. Astor is sitting on top of Owen, holding his arm extended behind him. The gun drops from his nerveless hand into her waiting one.

"Don't try to get up," Astor warns. "I'll break your fingers."

"Astor!" Rita sounds shocked. 

"I mean it." Astor holds the gun with both hands in front of his face. Her shoulders tense with effort and I hear a creak of metal. She drops it on the floor, where he can see it.

Cody's eyes are trying to fly out of his head on a rocket as he stares as the misshapen barrel, now bearing a distinct curve. I can see his friend is having the same reaction. This won't be easy to explain.

Astor slowly climbs to her feet. Then she turns and approaches Lumen. She sinks to one knee and holds out one hand, as she reaches down and pulls the knife from her ankle sheath. Cody's eyes have just about gone into orbit.

"I could let you die." Astor sounds almost thoughtful.

"Maybe..." Lumen keeps shutting her eyes, as if the light from my flashlight is too bright. It's not even pointed at her. "Maybe you should."

I want to speak up.

But I don't have the right.

Astor takes a deep breath and draws the blade across her forearm. Cody's yell sticks in his throat at the sight of her lifting Lumen's head, holding her arm to the vampire's mouth. It comes out twice as loud when that pained visage warps into a demonic snarl.

"It's okay, baby!" Rita moves forward, giving a quick worried glance behind her at Astor. "Come here. It's okay..."

Owen joins me in my silent stare as Cody runs into his mother's arms. The boy hiccups and sobs, so hard I think he may faint.

Lumen tries to pull away. Astor growls and grabs the back of her head, forcing their connection. Tears are running down that savage predator's face as Lumen swallows in great gulps, rocking back and forth as gurgling moans issue from between bloody lips.

Nathan's turning green, but he can no more look away than the rest of us from the primal act taking place before our astonished eyes. Astor's still on one knee, almost losing her balance. Lumen is still crying from guilt and ecstasy as her hand finds my daughter's. Astor slumps over, eyelids fluttering as her head sinks onto Lumen's shoulder.

_"911, what is your --"_

"Severe blood loss," I snap. "Possible suicide attempt. We need a transfusion team now --"

"Oh God." Rita swallows, looking even paler underneath her mask of dried blood.

"She'll be all right." Lumen doesn't have to fight this time to pull away. She holds Astor in her arms like a baby, their roles reversed as she tears a ribbon of fabric from her shirt to staunch the flow from Astor's wound.

"They'll be here very soon." I nod to Rita, indicating her now darkening bruises. "You should get that looked at."

"You're looking at it." Her giggle is only slightly hysterical. Mostly nervous, unsure of daring to feel even the slightest relief.

Cody is staring at her face. As if he's only just now noticing the faint scars.

"You were right," I say.

I never planned this. I don't know what will come out of my mouth. And I don't care if Nathan's here. I can't wait for the right moment.

"I am a serial killer."

Rita's eyes are locked on me as I approach her. She sets Cody down, keeping one hand on his shoulder. 

"Basically retired. As far as bad guys are concerned." I pause. "Bad humans, anyway."

Cody swallows as he stares up at me. 

"Now?" I say. "I hunt demons."

Astor's still fighting to stay conscious. But I see a tiny grin at the corner of her mouth. If it weren't for the blood loss, I'd probably be dealing with a sarcastic remark.

"I know," I continue. "It's bizarre, but -- I didn't go out looking for this. It just sort of...found me."

Of all the ways I could have confessed the truth to Rita, I don't think either of us could have imagined this. She's staring at me like a horror movie maiden stares at a vampire on the silver screen. Repelled; horrified. Entranced.

"I lied to you for so long." _Right from our very first date._ "About so many things. But not about the way you made me feel. Like things could be..." I have to swallow the lump in my throat. "Better."

I can see her struggle clearly. She hates herself for giving in. For thinking she can believe a word of what I'm saying.

"And when you died...when you were --"

_murdered_

"It was my fault."

I know just how Owen feels. Right now I'm so close to the edge I can taste it in my throat. Remembering my one and only senseless act of random violence.

"I didn't know what to do." I still don't. "I tried to run away. And then I tried to..." I lift my hand, let it fall. "Try."

Tears glisten in Rita's eyes. Cody looks back and forth between us, trying his best to follow the various levels of our conversation.

"I met Lumen." I nod at my partner, still cradling Astor in her arms. "We helped each other -- she went away. Astor came back. Lumen did too. And then things got really crazy."

Rita looks as though it's finally sinking in just how crazy things can get around here. 

"I killed my first vampire. I fought some demons. And I realized this was a more... constructive outlet. For my..." I search for a euphemism. "Impulses."

Astor lets out a weak snort.

"But there was this vampire --" 

I can't go on. I don't want to talk about Darla. How she dredged up everything in me from Rita's death, all over again.

Just like looking at her is doing to me, right now.

"I'm sorry." I'm as close to crying as I ever am. Visibly, audibly choking up. "For everything."

"I hate you." Rita's tears are streaming freely. The misery on her face comes from a thousand sources and directions, even as she gives in, allowing me to take her by the hand. "I fucking hate you."

I bow my head in penance.

"I know."

  


* * *

  


She can't believe it worked that fast. But she isn't just back to normal. Lumen's better than ever. Amped up on high octane, with a nitrous supercharger.

Astor weighs nothing at all as she carries her down the stairs. Dexter and Rita follow close behind, Cody in his mother's arms, Nathan bringing up the rear. Lumen doesn't know if Owen is still up there. She doesn't give a damn. More important things to worry about.

The drivers are just getting out of the ambulance, the neighbors once again gawking and rubbernecking like they've never seen any of this before. Lumen relinquishes her precious cargo, but refuses to let go of Astor's hand. Not until she feels the junior Slayer return the pressure with a small but unmistakable squeeze.

"We'll be right there." Lumen leans down before she can stop herself. Astor is obviously surprised by the hug, but it doesn't seem unwelcome. Lumen even plants a kiss on her cheek for good measure.

"Yuck." Astor's weak whisper accompanies a sarcastic smile as the drivers load her into the van. "Blood."

"It's your blood." Lumen's crying again, even as she smiles back.

She watches them pull out and kick into high gear, engaging the siren and lights. It must be getting rough for the neighbors. Like living in a retirement community. She's still crying big, fat embarrassing tears, like the ones shed by so many others on this night of secrets laid bare. She wipes her face, thinking she must look a fright.

She turns to Dexter. And her gaze falls on someone even worse.

"I'm the bad guy."

Owen sits on the front steps. His unkempt hair and rumpled dress shirt bring to mind an up and coming middle manager. The guy who tied one too many on at the company picnic.

He looks up and sees Lumen. She's about to suggest Prozac when his expression brightens. He scrambles to his feet, eager as a puppy.

"Kill me," he says.

She wasn't expecting that. Though in hindsight, it seems inevitable.

"Kill me!" Owen's desperation is rising. But wavering as well, unable to reach its former lofty heights. "I know you want to!"

"You're right." 

Owen sputters to a stop, his outrage thwarted.

"In fact -- you don't know how much." She looks over at Dexter. Rita's trying to stand on her own, unable to keep from leaning on his arm. "Every day. And you know what?"

It only takes two steps before she's almost nose to nose with him. Owen can barely stand as he faces her, trying not to flinch away.

"I don't." Lumen shakes her head. "I like my little unlife. And I'm not going to throw it away for anything, or anyone. Even you."

Owen looks like he's seeing a shark sitting down at a table with a knife and fork, ready to tuck into a nice green salad.

"If you want to take that trip? Then you do the driving." Lumen doesn't try to sound harsh. It just comes out that way. "Or you can live with it. Like she's going to have to."

Owen swallows, as the weight of his crimes begins to fully sink in.

"Besides." Lumen leans in close, with a meaningful glare. "You took away the fun option."

Cody watches from Rita's arms, in horrified fascination. Owen looks ready to wet himself.

"So if you want to do the right thing and turn yourself in --" Lumen takes one of those unnecessary breaths. "I'd be willing to testify on your behalf."

Owen's confusion isn't going away. "Really?"

Lumen can't help a smirk. "As long as it's night court."

He actually looks torn. "Can I think it over?"

"For old time's sake." She doesn't try to sound friendly, either. "Don't take too long."

He wanders back and plops down on the front steps. Lumen sighs and wonders how much time and physical space he's going to need.

Dexter approaches her, somewhat hesitantly. "You okay?"

"All things considered." She doesn't want to tell him how good. At least on a physical level. If all these people would get out of here, she'd show Dexter Morgan just how okay she feels.

Owen is her polar opposite as he sits hunched over on the stoop. It's a good thing Astor took his gun out of the equation. They might have needed to put him on suicide watch.

"Did that man hurt you?"

Lumen can easily make out the faint whisper from Cody, right into his mother's ear. She's pretty sure Owen can't hear a damn thing. Rita's ignoring her son, cooing and fussing over him. As a distraction, it works pretty damn well.

"All right." Owen stands and tests his weight on one foot before limping over to her. He still looks like an ill-prepared man about to be executed. "I'll do it."

"I'm glad," Lumen says. She's also more surprised than she might want to admit.

Owen looks at his wrist.

"Dexter has a sister." Lumen smiles at the sound of it. "She's working the night shift. We'll take you down there as soon as we know Astor's okay."

"All right." Owen sounds nervous again. Hopefully it's the kind they can work through.

"Don't worry." And she does mean it. Even if it is one of the sillest things a person could say right now. "We'll make sure the truth gets out."

Owen stops and looks at her. Then he laughs. Like Lumen had laughed, when the priest told her how life as she knew it was over.

"The _truth?_ "

Lumen sighs.

_"Touche."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * * *
> 
> A Wire reference? In _my_ Buffy/Dexter? Whoda thunk?


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loose ends are tied up. Explanations are given. Two familiar faces return. Two flashbacks fill in the final pieces of the puzzle. And a family reunited says a tearful goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not far now. Still planning on a break after this before starting to post book 3. How long a break depends on how long it takes to get the outline fleshed out enough. Definitely a week or two, possibly a month or two. But I am absolutely committed to finishing this now-a-trilogy, and unless I get hit by a bus, it's almost certain to happen. So enjoy, and try not to sweat any cliffhangers.
> 
> * * *

The next twenty-four hours are a relatively controlled whirlwind.

Obviously there's a ton of things to take care of. Our first priority is getting to the hospital to check on Astor. Cody insists on coming with us this time, and I don't argue the point. He and Nathan have a brief discussion before the other boy heads back to his own house, with only one or two glances over his shoulder.

"Do you think he'll tell anyone?" I direct this at Cody. He's in back with Rita as she buckles him in. His legs are still short enough they barely reach the edge of the seat.

Cody's eyes move to Lumen, sitting up front in the passenger seat. He shakes his head as he stares at her, but doesn't say anything.

"Please hurry." Rita's voice is strained.

I take a last look around. Most of the neighbors have gone back inside their houses, abandoning us in favor of Monday Night Football. I guess I'm not as entertaining this time.

I open the rear hatch for Owen. "You sit back here."

Owen looks like I'm inviting him to take a flying leap into a running wood chipper. I try not to show impatience, but I'm about to grab him and stuff him in. Luckily he seems to sense my displeasure. He crawls in and lies down on his side, with his back to me.

I could wrap him up right now. Dispose of him while we wait.

I shut the door, barely missing his head.

  


* * *

  


Astor of course is more than fine. By the time we get to the hospital she's already sitting up in bed, complaining that her orange juice is too sweet. It almost gets ugly before one of the nurses finds a diet cranberry in the break room. I have to promise not to inform anyone of this unauthorized treatment.

But the peace is fragile. The clock is ticking, and the fast approaching dawn will trap Lumen in the building. I can tell the staff haven't forgotten about us. After all, we were here less than three weeks ago; Astor with a broken wrist, me with a deep wound in the abdomen, a variety of cuts and punctures on my hands and all the rest of me. I don't think they'll be willing to let us walk out again without a serious sit-down interview.

We should have gotten our stories straight. Now I'll have to improvise.

The team of nurses are milling around, casting furtive glances. With Cody still clinging to her like he's glued on, Rita seems partly shielded against outright suspicion. But I've already caught one nurse staring at a nearby window in the hallway, blinking furiously until Lumen noticed and moved. I only hope there isn't a budding Watcher on the hospital staff. And the nervous presence of Owen is a huge red flag to any observer.

The milling is intensifying. The nurses appear to have worked out the pecking order, chosen their designated speaker. I'm gearing up for their final assault when there's a knock on the door.

"Dexter Morgan?"

The new visitor is professionally dressed to kill, wearing an understated but expensive looking dark burgundy pantsuit. The ID badge on her lanyard speaks to the upper echelons of the bureaucrat class. But her sparkling gold fingernails have the flamboyant look of a disco queen. The shaved left side of her head reveals a profusive covering of tattoos, while the right is straight, jet-black hair that brushes her waistline.

"That's right." I take a chance and step forward. Anything is better than those nurses. "And you are?"

"Lenore Ogilvie." She holds up the lanyard with a twinkle in her eye. "DCF."

"I've been waiting for you." This interjection comes from the designated spokesnurse. Judging by her profound glare, I don't have to guess who made the call.

"I'm sure you have." The newcomer's reply is immediate. "I'll let you know if I need anything. For now, this interview will be conducted in the home."

The nurse doesn't object until it's made clear that Astor will be leaving with us. I let our rescuer do all the required arguing, which is less than I expected. The rapid healing ability of a Slayer doesn't leave medical professionals with much of a leg to stand on. After a great deal of deliberation and no little amount of drama, it's decided that we can be allowed to depart.

"We'll meet you there," I say as we make our escape. "Unless you need a ride?"

"That would be nice." Our supposed DCF worker is sounding slightly less bright eyed and bushy tailed. "It's been a long day for everyone."

It's almost getting light out, so Lumen sits in the hatch with Owen. I'm expecting Astor to call shotgun like usual. Instead she takes the back with Rita and Cody, squeezed up against her mother from another world. With Cody plastered to both of them them like flypaper coated in super glue, it makes me want to take a picture.

It also makes me want to cry. Or whatever it is that I do. 

The ride back is a silent one. I'm glad this Lenore isn't a talker. But as sure as I am that's not really her name, I'm sure that she has some connection to the supernatural world. The biggest clue are those symbols on her skull I keep seeing, every time I make a right turn.

The block is beginning to wake up as I pull into the driveway. At least the ones who weren't up all night worrying about us. I feel a pop in my knees as I climb out of the Dextermobile. Astor's started calling it that. Don't ask me why.

"Hey, Dex."

"Hey, Bill." Our next door neighbor is in his truck, just about to leave for work. I'm about to go inside when he waves to me. I give Lumen my keys and trot over, hoping to distract him from accosting anyone else.

"Everything okay?" I shouldn't have asked. But he doesn't look like anything's wrong. His close-cropped beard is trimmed, his skin freshly scrubbed and with a healthy glow.

"I don't know how you wore Nathan out." Bill shakes his head and grins. "But that's the first good night's sleep I've gotten since the night before he was born. Kid still looks like a zombie."

Now I have to ask. "How's he doing?"

"He's fine." Bill nods, tossing me a salute. "Likes your boy. Good kid."

He pulls out and drives off. I've almost forgotten our ersatz social worker as I trudge back to the house. I've also forgotten our resident bad guy. When I walk up, Lenore is waiting for me on the front steps. Owen stands off to the side with his hands in his pockets, trying to look unobtrusive.

"My sister's picking you up," I tell him. "She'll be here in five minutes. If you move from that spot, you lose your chance."

Owen nods, quickly glancing away. As I turn, he speaks.

"I'm sorry."

I look back. He has to force himself to meet my gaze; to make himself stand up straight.

"I --" His Adam's apple does a little fluttering dance. "I wish you the best."

"Good luck," I say. I don't know if I mean it. But I have no idea where his life will go from here. I hope it's somewhere better.

I turn and walk up to the steps. Lenore's face is thin, with the unsmiling gauntness of a grade school teacher. But the corners of her eyes bear the wrinkles of frequent laughter.

"I have to say, this is a first." She stands and dusts off her hindquarters, offering me a gold-nailed hand. "I don't usually get personally involved."

Her skin is cool to the touch. Not vampire cool. 

"Do you have another name?" I ask. "Maybe a professional one?"

She shakes her head as she opens the door for me. "You couldn't pronounce it."

  


* * *

  


_"And you're certain?"_

_"How many damn waivers and disclaimers do I have to sign?" Darla's growl is somewhat distracted. Understandable, given she's wrapping a cloth around her bleeding hand. "Do you want my money or not?"_

_"I don't need your money." The mage doesn't look at her customer. She's busy laying a hot coal on a bed of incense with a pair of silver tongs. "Now benefits? That would be worth something."_

_"I'm not an insurance company." Darla glares as she finishes tying off the bandage. "If you wanted a decent package, maybe you shouldn't have told someone like D'Hoffryn where he could stick his job."_

_"Believe me, I'm happier as an independent." The mage frowns and holds up her thumb, squinting at the chalk circle on the floor. "And remember that you must phrase your vengeance in the form of a wish."_

_"Oh?" Darla brightens. "Then that's easy."_

_"Like I haven't heard that before." An eyeroll from the mage, as she picks up a quill and parchment. "Surprise me."_

_"I wish for Dexter Morgan to suffer..." Darla raises one eyebrow in a dramatic pause. "More than he could ever imagine."_

_"Oh, I like that." The mage nods. "That he can imagine. That's good."_

_"Yes, well -- I have a boat to catch." Darla's already looking impatient. "And I've always been the practical sort. I leave flights of imagination to those with too much time on their hands."_

_"You're immortal," the mage points out._

_"And you just lost your tip. Unless you can deliver..." Darla's eyes narrow to slits. "In spades."_

_An impudent smile crawls over that thin, haughty face as the sorceress rolls up her satin sleeves._

_"I do enjoy a challenge."_

  


* * *

  


I still don't get it, and say so.

"I still don't get it."

"Magic." Lumen sneers, sounding mildly contemptuous. "Go figure."

"Vengeance demons grant wishes," Lenore explains. "It's why we're given the power. Our _raison d'être_."

Our new friend is holding court in our somewhat restored living room. It's not in the best of shape for receiving visitors, but Lenore is the sophisticated type whose mere presence brightens up the worst sort of living conditions. Deb showed up during this whole explanation and we made the exchange, Owen for Harrison. I'm pretty sure I got the better deal. At least until he develops a larger vocabulary.

I'm sitting by myself. It seems appropriate. And the couch is just big enough for everyone else: Lumen, Astor, Rita with Harrison, and Cody on the end. I keep expecting Cody to start falling asleep, but even with that burned out and sunken in look, he's riveted by Lenore's lecture. I think he's following it better than I am.

The joy in Rita's eyes at the sight of Harrison nestled in her arms, at Astor and Cody on either side of her, is worth a lifetime of pain. Cody looks worried every time he looks up and sees the bruise on her face, but then goes back to snuggling. It helps that she finally washed off all that dried blood.

Astor isn't being quite as clingy as Cody, but she also has Lumen to lean on. I take comfort in this. No matter what happens to me, it's good to know my makeshift family have grown beyond their petty differences.

"Some wishes are bigger than others." Lenore makes an expansive gesture. Her graceful fingers sketch figures in the air. "A wish alters reality. Big enough, it creates a whole new reality. One of the many ways parallel universes come into being."

"You're telling me I didn't exist until last week?" Rita's good mood appears more than slightly shaken by this revelation.

"But most of us are lazy." Although Lenore doesn't directly respond, her didactic tone takes on a softer edge as she gazes at her creation. "When it comes to this stuff? We'll spend months dreaming up the best way to vivisect an unfaithful man. Then just snap the fingers -- _wish granted_. And everything plays out, on automatic."

I hazard a guess. "Doesn't sound very exciting."

"You might as well be pumping out widgets on an assembly line." Lenore takes a sip of peppermint tea, making a little sound of appreciation. "All the higher ups treat it like a numbers game. Where quantity has a quality all its own."

"A game?" Rita looks horrified, rapidly turning to outrage. "These are people's lives you're talking about!"

"It's all a game." Lenore delivers this in a kindly manner. "All the way down."

Rita stares in hurt indignation as she pulls into herself, holding Harrison closer. Cody looks concerned for his mom, whereas Astor is glaring at Lenore with the promise of retaliation should we travel much further down this road.

"But I like being creative." Lenore is back to sounding like a kindergarten teacher. "It's why I decided to go into business for myself."

Astor frowns, obviously skeptical.

"Yes, my child?" Lenore sounds like she's mocking someone as she gazes at Astor, all innocence. I'm just not sure who.

"Don't your powers come from that D'Hoffryn guy?" Astor stumbles over the name. "How come you didn't have to give them back?"

"Confidential settlement agreement." Lenore's polite smile warns that the subject truly is closed. "So as I was saying --"

"So are you are a curse mage or a vengeance demon?" Astor looks like she's trying to calculate the answer. "Or both?"

"Sorry." The smile this time is more genuine, slightly regretful. "This isn't about me."

"Let her finish, honey." Rita seems slightly sheepish as the rest of us turn to look at her.

"Darla wanted you to suffer," Lenore continues. "As she put it, more than you could ever imagine. And so this other reality was created -- branching off from one specific point."

Rita looks more than a little queasy.

"You want some water?" Astor appears eager to assist. Rita shakes her head and pats her daughter on the knee.

"But that was only half of the equation." Lenore's looking more sympathetic than ever. "If you think about it."

"You mean --" Rita's reaction is back to being horrified.

I feel my brow furrow. "You mean how she came here?"

"Yes." Lenore looks over at Rita, expectant. "It's the power of the wish, you see."

Rita stll looks confused. And yet there's some sort of underlying understanding, just waiting for the right connection to be made.

With its strict lines and confident features, the emotion in Lenore's crooked smile is one that looks wholly unfamiliar on that face. And yet it's there.

Regret.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

  


* * *

  


_She doesn't know how she managed to put the kids down. Cody had dawdled more than usual, quickly progressing to negotiation tactics that only frustrated both of them. Astor had taken Harrison outside, sensibly refusing to reenter the room until her brother submitted._

_Of course, that left Astor in a snit. It makes it worse that neither of them feel safe yelling at the other. Regardless of the boys and their slumber, the walls of this motel are as thin as the others. This is the third one since they lost the house. She can't afford to piss anyone off._

_Astor has some nerve. That child is growing up far too quickly._

_It wouldn't have been anything. Just another smartass remark. But Rita can't let it go._

_"I wish you never met him." Astor's voice is cold and quiet._

_"I know, honey." She just wants to let it go. For them to go to bed once this year without harsh words being hurled in both directions, slicing and stabbing deeper into their souls._

_"You can't even say it." Astor shakes her head. "You can't even say you wish you never met him."_

_That had been the start of an argument that while it didn't wake the neighbors, almost woke up Cody. Finally Rita had gone outside and stood on the walkway, clutching a rusted railing in her hands, waiting for Astor to go to bed. It didn't take long, but her nerves were absolutely destroyed. They always are._

_She'd picked up a bottle of cheap wine a few days ago. A spur of the moment impulse buy. Stupid and unnecessary, especially when she suspects Astor may be shoplifting beer. Just another desperate attempt to pretend everything was still normal._

_She can't afford to get drunk. But here she is, having a glass. A plastic party cup, anyway. She sits out on the walkway, her back against the wall as lovers and junkies alike stumble through the parking lot below. Rita hears, but she doesn't see them. She's looking up at the stars._

_How dare Astor say that. Of course she fucking wishes._

_She takes her time with that glass. And somehow, against all common sense, she pours a second. No more -- have to be responsible. Have to be strong, for the kids._

_She ensures this by giving the rest of her bottle to the first hooker to walk by. That earns her some solid good will. Always an asset in any community._

_It's not enough. Rita paces herself heavily, with no idea how long it takes her to reach the bottom. It only makes her realize as she sits there nursing her drink and the ache in her heart, draining the final dregs from her cup, how much worse Dexter was for her than any amount of physical abuse._

_How much more dangerous to her children._

_She waits to stand until the world spins more slowly. When she goes back in, Astor is asleep on one of the cots. Apparently she's once again failed to convince her daughter to take the bed._

_Rita crawls into bed. The sheets are scratchy and they need to be washed. But her purse is in its accustomed spot on the table, her gun inside accounted for and ready._

_She lies there staring at the cracks and stains on the ceiling. Feeling the world spin lazily on, heedless of her plight. And she thinks again of Dexter. Lying, murdering Dexter, who led her on like a poor lost little sheep. Lies on top of lies, burying her at the absolute bottom of despair._

_And she'd believed every one. Held nothing but love in her heart for that sweet and only slightly flawed man, who never demanded sex. Who despite his busy work schedule, always had time and a kind word for the children that weren't even his. Who showed every sign of being just as good of a father to Harrison._

_Every problem life had thrown at them, they had overcome. And they'd been ready to face it together._

_"You fucking bastard." Rita's heartfelt curse is barely a whisper as she wipes away her sniffles. "Oh God, I wish you were real."_

  


* * *

  


Rita's staring at me again. Her grasp on Harrison has gone slightly loose. He starts to climb free as Astor picks him up, with a worried look at her mother.

"I still don't get it," I say. "Did you plan for her to wish that?"

"Not explicitly." Lenore gives an offhand shrug. "Free will and all."

"If you didn't plan every detail, then isn't this other world --" I think back to how she described it. "Running on automatic?"

"I don't make those rules." Lenore's smirk is noticeably sour. "That's above my pay grade."

I might worry about that later. "So what's the difference?"

"I didn't literally create the world. My power only made it possible." Lenore dismisses this with a wave of her sparkling fingernails. "The important thing is that now, I can retire. Very early," she adds.

"You made money off this?" Rita looks appalled beyond measure. 

Lenore arches an eyebrow. "Would you like me to finish?" 

"Mom," Astor mutters.

"I'm sorry." Rita sighs and takes a deep breath. "Please." 

"So you see how I granted your wish?" Lenore sounds like it should be obvious to anyone with a brain cell.

Lumen looks over at our meddling demoness. "By bringing her here."

"And the real beauty -- the elegance, if you will --" Lenore stands and drains the last of her tea, turning on her heel and striding into the kitchen. She rinses out her mug at the sink, setting it upside down in the rack.

I send Astor a meaningful look of my own. "You could learn from her example."

Astor shakes her head as she stares back at me. "Really?"

"It's the double duty." Lenore rejoins us, but doesn't return to her seat. "I piggyback off the first wish -- leverage it for the second. And talk about creative interpretation?"

She stares into the distance with a pang of longing. At some glorious possible future only she can see.

"I tell you. If I was still working for D'Hoffryn?" Lenore grins and shakes her head in awe. "By the end of the day, I'd have his job."

"Well, congratulations." Rita sounds relatively composed, only moderately bitter. "You must be very proud."

"Going from independent to independently wealthy?" Lenore gives a satisfied nod. "Doesn't suck."

Rita swallows as she looks at me. I can see the beginnings in her eyes. The seeds of actual trust, even love. And the pain of knowing the impossible nature of that beautiful dream. All the impenetrable obstacles to seeing her wish come permanently true.

"So, sure. I never have to work another day in my life." Lenore makes a cynical gesture, vaguely masturbatory in nature. I wouldn't recognize it except for the pernicious influence of Vince Masuka. I'll have to tell him. He'll be thrilled.

"But I'm not going to live forever," Lenore concludes. "And Darla may have left Miami -- but I still have to live here. Unless I move. And I like it here."

I refrain from asking what the bottom line is. I'm sure she'll get around to it.

"I can't afford to make too many lifelong enemies. Even mortals." Lenore's gaze sweeps over the couch full of people. "And, as an independent -- I can exercise a bit more discretion."

"Are you saying --" Lumen glances at Rita with obvious sympathy. "You can just undo it?"

"Oh, no." Lenore shakes her head. "Once a wish has been fulfilled, it can't be reversed. Or countermanded, or undone."

"Not without destroying the demon's power center," Astor says.

"Even if you could find it?" Lenore's tone is slightly frosty. "I wouldn't advise it."

"But someone could make another wish." Astor watches Lenore for her reaction. "Right?"

"Strong as an ox and clever to boot." Lenore bestows a smile on Rita. "You must be very proud."

Rita doesn't respond as the mage looks back at Astor. Cody's been following the proceedings with keen interest. Now he's more worried, even if he can't place why.

Astor's gaze is as sharp as my knife collection. "It can be anything I want?"

"As long as you intend vengeance." Lenore smiles and shrugs. "Letter of the law."

I nod. "Then I think I know what would upset Darla more than anything."

Astor looks puzzled. "What's that?"

"A happy ending."

I see the light dawning.

Astor hesitates, and nods. "Then I know what I wish for."

" _No!_ "

Cody stares up at his big sister like she's the devil incarnate. He holds on to Rita with all the strength in his young and growing body. As if she's about to turn to smoke in his clutches, drift away on the wind and disappear.

"You can't send her away!" Cody's breathing is accelerating, on the verge of a full blown anxiety or asthma attack. "We just got her back! You can't --"

"Honey," Rita breathes. "Oh, honey..."

Astor swallows as she watches. Lumen's reaching over to smoothly relieve Harrison from Rita, to be replaced with Cody as her arms encircle him. If I thought he was crying in the attic, this is the real deluge. Harrison is craning his neck around, giving his big brother a confused look of his own.

Rita doesn't say another word as she holds Cody tight, rocking back and forth, shushing him under her breath. It still takes him a few minutes to cry himself out.

"I'm so sorry, baby." Rita's whisper is ragged as she pulls back, just enough that they can look each other in the eye. "But I'm not your mom."

"You are." Cody sounds like he's about to start up again. "You _are_ \--"

"I wish I was." Rita shakes her head. "But I have my own Cody."

Cody blinks away tears. "You do?"

"And Astor. And Harrison." Rita lifts Cody by the chin, trying to impress the importance of these things upon him. "And I know you need me. But they need me too. And they don't have..." She looks around the room before returning her gaze to him. "All the things that you do. All the people."

Cody's still sniffling as she wipes his face. But it looks like it's beginning to sink in. The blind hope and panic of childhood is still there. And something new: The low-level, permanent dread and awareness of adulthood.

"Can you be strong?" Rita's doing her best. "For all of them? For me?"

Cody nods. For a moment he can't stop. His entire body is trembling as he bows his head.

"I love you, baby." Rita reaches out and pulls in Astor and Harrison. For a moment they're a squirming octopus. A single connected organism.

"Okay," Rita whispers. Her own head is bowed as she holds all three children close. "I'm ready."

Astor looks over at Lenore. The sorceress nods.

Astor clears her throat.

"I wish your kids had their mom back."

Lenore smiles. Raises her hand, and snaps her gold-nailed fingers.

"Wish granted."

I blink.

Nothing has changed. Rita's still here. Everyone else on the couch is realizing it as well, with widely differing reactions.

"Before anyone files a complaint --" Lenore gives Cody a stern look. "Or gets their hopes up --"

Cody makes a wordless noise of frustration. He leans his head on Rita, glaring at Lenore like she's just assigned homework for life.

"You need to be in the same place you came in. To avoid those pesky time-space issues." Lenore waves this off as unworthy of further elaboration. "So you literally need to go back where you came from --"

"To go back where I came from?" Rita's disbelief is plain. I don't know why, at this point. My old empirical worldview is taking more of a beating every day.

"Once you go there, the portal will appear." Lenore's shrug is just more than casual. "And if you wanted to spend a little more time together, beforehand --"

"Can we have dinner?" Cody looks back and forth between Lumen and Rita. "Can you spend the night?"

I watch them figure things out for a moment, then beckon Lenore over to the kitchen.

"I can't help but think you're the only one not seeing a downside." I look over at my family, laughing and hugging and talking away. "You get nothing but reward from start to finish."

She doesn't look ready to argue. "How do you figure?"

"Start with the money," I say. "Your astonishingly elegant solution to a complicated problem. A triple play combo --"

"Goodness." Lenore smiles. "I must be an evil genius."

"Not to mention the altruistic satisfaction of doing a good deed." I look over at Astor. It's been a few days since I saw a smile that big on her face. "And when Darla finds out --"

"She'll be furious." Lenore chuckles, relishing the prospect. "More than enough to satisfy the need for vengeance."

"And you're not worried about her?" I feel silly just saying it. This woman can bend and shape reality to her whim. She's not going to lose any sleep over a common vampire.

"Dexter. I'm shocked." Lenore frowns at me. "Are you saying my contract with Darla wasn't fulfilled? To the letter?"

I pause, and grimace.

"Can't argue with that."

  


* * *

  


Deb's trying not to fidget. It's never easy when she's waiting for a superior to critique her work. Right now it's harder than usual. One reason is Vince Masuka, standing next to her. The other is Lieutenant LaGuerta, sitting at her desk in a more severe and businesslike suit than usual, reading their report.

LaGuerta looks up with an expression of puzzled distaste. "What is this?"

"Ma'am?" Deb can see where this is going.

"This can't be right." The lieutenant sounds perfectly calm and reasonable. "And since it can't be right? You're going to make it right. Before I shove this clown circus up your narrow ass."

"I'm sure it's just a lab mixup." Vince sounds like he barely believes his own excuse. "I'll go yell at records."

"Do that," LaGuerta snaps. "And when you bring this back, it had better make sense."

"Yes ma'am." Vince straightens his back.

"There are more bodies in this city every day." LaGuerta glares at them both in turn. "You jam me up on one, and I will have you for breakfast. Count on it."

"Yes ma'am." Deb resists the urge to salute. It might come out wrong.

LaGuerta sighs. "Dismissed."

"That could have gone worse." Vince still looks green around the gills as they beat a hasty retreat from the lieutenant's office. "How long do I need to stall?"

"I'll let you know." Deb has no idea. "I'm gonna talk to you-know-who one more time. Before she goes back home."

Vince's anxiety remains high. "You think you can satisfy Quinn?"

"I was too much for him." Deb cocks an eyebrow. "Ask him. He'll tell you."

Vince gives his most sage nod. "A little knowledge is a dangerous thing."

  


* * *

  


"This is not easy."

"Bullshit never is." Quinn nods, contemplating the blank pad of paper before them. "Especially when it's gotta be real."

"Just not entirely true." Owen sighs. They're sitting in one of the smaller interrogation rooms with the cameras off. Real off, not pretend.

"You could write how it really happened," Quinn suggests. "Then I take out... all the stuff that needs takin' out."

"Probably wouldn't leave very much." Owen looks over with a hopeful expression. "Do you think we can get some dinner?"

"Already taken care of." Quinn looks up at the knock on the door. "Probably our delivery man now."

"You layabout." Jones is enormous as ever as he lumbers in, doffing his hat and dropping it on the table along with a greasy paper bag. The tiny room is flooded with the smell of pulled pork. "Only a public servant could be so irresponsible."

"And only a PI can be such a smartass." Quinn opens the bag and takes a deep whiff. "Ready to put that English degree to actual use?"

Jones narrows his eyes, pausing in the middle of pulling out a chair. "You're not supposed to know about that."

"It's my job to find out." Quinn allows himself a tiny smile as he prepares to concoct the finest fiction. "Let's get started."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lenore Ogilvie: The Alan Smithee of the supernatural world.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another double length installment. A tempting offer. Some interesting results. More interesting results. Real boys and parting gifts. Mending bridges. Another confession, and a charitable donation. Parting is such sweet sorrow. Reunited and it feels so good. And your penultimate cliffhanger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another all nighter. I cried more than once writing this.
> 
> Only one more scene for the epilogue before I take a well earned and much needed vacation. We'll see how long that ends up being, but in the meantime, I hope all of you are still enjoying this as much as I am. It's been an amazing thirty-one days, and I'll see you again soon.
> 
> Also, if I get hit by a bus before posting the epilogue, just know that I died doing what I love: Flipping off bad drivers.
> 
> * * *

"It may be time to move."

Lenore's already taken her leave, departing as mysteriously as she arrived. The room has been pretty quiet since then. But it occurs to me as I look around our still partially demolished home that this place has far too many bad memories. The sun is up outside, filtering in through the curtains. And the harsh light of day makes certain truths harder to ignore. More than mere broken furniture.

"I just got my own room." Cody's bangs are getting shaggy. They flop in and out of his eyes as he shakes his head. "And a best friend."

"We don't have to think about it." I reach over and ruffle his hair. "Not right away."

Rita cringes as she looks at the wall. I see her taking in the extensive plaster damage.

"Insurance might cover that," I say. "If we have a good explanation."

"Harrison's getting bigger." Rita looks over at her youngest child, more than happy to change the subject. "He'll need his own room pretty soon."

Harrison is playing relay tag with himself, toddling back and forth between us from the couch to the chair and back again. His mouth hangs open in a huge grin, emitting a little shriek of pleasure each time his fingers brush our knees before turning and zooming away.

I hold out my hand as Harrison runs at me. He smacks my fist and giggles, looking over at Rita for approval. 

Cody looks serious again. "Are you going to tell him?"

"Tell him what?" Lumen says it before I can respond. She sounds like she's apologizing. "We have an awful lot of secrets in this family."

Cody glances over at his big sister, his suspicious stare one of intense scrutiny. Astor's defiance is somewhat marred by clear discomfort and outright guilt. I'm sure Cody sees it too.

It would be awfully inconvenient having to dread the day that Harrison asks me precisely the right wrong question. Or stumbles across an inconvenient piece of evidence, at the worst possible moment.

"Don't lie."

I look down. There's a stubborn set to Cody's jaw. A fire in his eye, despite the fear of standing up to an adult.

"Make sure he understands how important it is. To keep it secret." He stares up at me, begging silently for me to take him seriously. "But don't lie to him."

Our other Rita watches from the couch. I remember the words of my own when she'd been granted the briefest of visitations from beyond the grave. The forgiveness I'd received, that I would never deserve. And her parting words of love and admonition:

_No more lies._

"Okay." I nod and pat him on the shoulder. "We'll talk more about this."

Cody still looks skeptical. He opens his mouth, but it turns into a yawn.

"Off you go." Rita sweeps him up, with a questioning look at me.

"Astor," I say. "Can you take the boys on your floor for the night? Let her have Cody's room?"

"Sure." Astor glares at Cody. "You better not roll over on Harrison."

"I'll move his crib." Lumen sets to that task.

Rita carries Cody off down the hall, murmuring nonsense as his head descends upon her shoulder. It's almost like she never left. Apart from the visible property damage. 

Astor disappears into the bathroom, where I hear teeth being brushed. She at least takes less time to be put to bed once she has Rita to assist, but still longer than I'd expect, given her age. Just not her situation. I wonder how I'd react. If my mother suddenly reappeared, hale and hearty and whole, I might very well want a bedtime story. Just not the one about Bluebeard.

I'm waiting for Lumen to start hinting when she comes out of the bedroom. Instead, she goes back to the kitchen. When I look, she's cleaning the coffeemaker. I don't spend time dwelling on it. I probably wouldn't understand even after a full night's rest.

"Goodness." Rita emerges from Astor's room, shutting the door with a look of grave concern. "And I was worried about your influence."

"Those girls are something," I agree. "But seriously. This whole Slayer thing is a lot better than it used to be."

Rita doesn't look like she's buying it. I make a mental note, adding another item to the growing list.

Lumen finishes drying her hands and looks over at Rita. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Which part?" Rita's laugh is at least one of honest amusement. No more dancing on hysteria's edge, one step shy of full blown madness. "The part where you drank my daughter's blood?"

"Any of it." Lumen steps forward and takes Rita's hands in hers. "Do you want to come to bed with us?"

Apparently I'm not alone in my surprise. The blush creeping up Rita's neck, the nervous shuffling of her feet, all appear more than outweighed by her open and honest befuddlement.

"Did you..." Rita sends me a quick look over Lumen's shoulder. "Discuss this?"

Lumen laughs out loud, glancing back at me with an affectionate smile. "You're kidding, right?"

Rita chuckles, but looks momentarily helpless. It's almost like she's hoping I'll save her by making the decision for her. I'm not sure what I see on that face. The fear and loathing, the burning hatred at least are gone. I think she looks torn.

Even tempted.

"No." Rita seems sad. Her voice holds only the barest hint of regret. "No, thank you."

"I could let you have him for the night." There's a note of gentle teasing in Lumen's response. She also sounds completely serious.

Rita's crooked smile is somewhat doubtful. "Is he really yours to give?"

Lumen looks like she could argue the point. Instead she returns the smile. She releases Rita's hands, watching her turn and walk over to me.

The bruise on the side of her face has achieved spectacular coloration over the last few hours. It actually does a good job of covering the largest scar that runs from the corner of her left eye nearly down to her jawline. I even found some of her old clothes, ones I ended up keeping for Lumen. Rita's wearing her favorite pale blue pajama pants and top, whose printed sheep have raised fluffy coats of simulated wool. Her bare feet are dainty and exquisite. They make me feel like I'm twice as tall as she is.

"You're not the man I knew." Rita gives me a rueful smile. "And I think that's for the best."

She hesitates before reaching up, cradling my cheek with that tiny soft hand. Her expression is a river in motion, a constant stream of shifting currents.

"You have a good life." Rita takes a deep breath, lets it out in a less shaky chuckle. "A really strange one. But --"

She stands on her toes and pulls me down.

Something splits open inside me. Spills out through every pore, at the feel of her lips on my cheek. The smell of her body's unique perfume.

"But I'm happy for you."

I nod. There doesn't seem to be anything to say as I squeeze her hands, and let go.

She turns to Lumen, who opens her arms for a hug. Rita doesn't hesitate and returns the embrace with equal enthusiasm. Although I am surprised at how long it goes on. I'm almost starting to wonder when Rita pulls away, clearing her throat.

Lumen gives her a knowing smile. "You sure?"

Rita's definitely blushing again. "Not really."

"Plenty of room." Lumen sounds warm and inviting, without a hint of pressure.

"No. You..." Rita shakes her head, with a quick smile and glance at me. "You go on."

Lumen cocks her head. A slight questioning tone enters her voice. "But you thought about it."

Rita's blush is reaching the depths of a fine rosé. "I think that's more than enough."

I watch her scurry away, in full retreat. The motion of her hips in those loose-fitting pants is enticing. I'm not thinking about too much else when Lumen turns to face me.

"I can still feel it." She stares at me like a cobra contemplating a mouse. Her eyes smolder with dark fire and promise. "All that Slayer blood..."

She grabs me by the wrist, dragging me toward the bedroom.

I'm thinking Astor was a last meal for a condemned woman. From this day forward, Lumen will be forced to subsist on lower lifeforms. But right now she's still on the hard stuff. Two hundred proof. And then some.

I hope I can keep up.

  


* * *

  


I'm still sore the next morning. Enough that I'm thinking of asking the doctor to examine me. I'm just glad Rita's still back at the house. For me, it means less of a logistical hassle, having to wrangle two growing boys. For her -- and for them -- it's getting to spend a few more precious hours together.

Astor would have stayed as well, but her unexpected bonding with Lumen appears to have given her more of a vested interest in the state of her new mother's health. Sort of like an organ donor. Although right now she's out in the waiting room, having made a tactical exit after Lumen started disrobing in front of us.

"So we have some very interesting results."

Father Cardoza referred us to this doctor. A white-haired fellow with an Indian name and a stronger accent, as well as a professor-sized paunch. His archaic wire-rimmed spectacles appear less affectation than they might on a younger man. At least in the context of his office. With its rich dark wooden trim and paneling, the antique lampshades and rows of glass jars with the oddest preserved specimens I've ever seen, this place is like a miniature museum of demonology.

I'd been worried about literal snake oil. But for the most part, the procedures are no different from what I might perform in my own lab at work. He'd given Lumen a basic physical, marking a dash on her chart for both pulse and blood pressure. Then he'd drawn two vials, placing them in a centrifuge to spin while we discussed her background. The real surprise had been the speed. In less than a minute we're staring at a complete dump of the data, spread across a trio of very modern ultrawide monitors.

"Interesting in what sense?" Lumen says. She's just finished changing back into street clothes, showing just as little regard for our presence. I have to wonder if she really is this casual as a vampire, or if she's deliberately pushing things. Reaffirming to herself that she's not afraid of anything.

"A most clever design," the doctor continues. He pushes up his spectacles as he reviews the folder in his hand. "If somewhat self-defeating. This particular variation was part of a specific group. All of these were intended to be transmissible."

"That's an ugly sounding word." Lumen looks over at me. She doesn't appear overly worried. Not yet.

"Could be," I say. "What's the method of transmission? I assume blood?"

"Indeed, sir." The doctor bares his teeth, pointing to nonexistent fangs. "The bite."

"So if she --" I can't remember. "What's the term?"

"Sires?" At my nod, the doctor continues. "Yes. If she should sire another, that vampire would also inherit the condition."

"I see what you mean by self-defeating." I shake my head. "What were those guys thinking?"

"As I say -- it was obviously part of a group." The doctor shrugs, cupping both hands over his belly as he leans back in his chair. "Most likely the transmissibility factor was applied to every variation. But perhaps it could only coexist with a select few. The report from the Slayers does not go into such detail." He gazes blandly at me over the rims of his spectacles. "At least the portions you have shared."

"That's all I have," I say. "I could give you someone's number."

Lumen digs a surreptitious elbow into my side. Luckily, it's not the side that Darla puctured.

"I wasn't going to give him Andrew." I rub my side, giving her a suspicious glance before returning my attention to the doctor.

"In any case." The doctor's eyes twinkle as as he looks back and forth between us. "I am sure it has long ago been surpassed by far more diabolical creations."

I'd be surprised if the US Army didn't hold the biggest stockpile of whatever's currently in vogue. I'm starting to wonder at the unspoken extent of the spread of all this knowledge.

"Another swing and a miss." Lumen wears a half grin, with just the left corner of her mouth upraised. "Wasn't planning on making any more of me." 

"But you said she'll be fine with animals?" I need to know her life isn't in danger. Or at least not at risk of starvation.

"Oh, yes sir. But we will discuss that in a moment." The doctor turns to Lumen with a kindly air. "Upon conclusion of the non-physical portion of the examination."

I admit I'm still more than a little skeptical. Regardless of what other weirdness I may have witnessed over the last year, the idea of an anagogic demon is one I find less plausible with each new attempt at an explanation. I blame Andrew.

The wheels of the doctor's chair emit a series of squeaks as he rolls back. He rises to his feet, straightening his alabaster jacket. "And would you prefer the reading in private?"

"What?" Lumen frowns, slightly puzzled. "Well -- no. I mean, of course I want him here."

The doctor bows his head slightly to gaze once more over his spectacles, back and forth between us. "Including the preliminary information gathering?"

Lumen's puzzled frown grows, her eyebrows contracting. "Pardon?"

"Your song?" The doctor wears an air of inexhaustible patience. "You have chosen, yes?"

"Oh." Lumen stops, with growing awareness. "Um..."

"I believe the young miss requires a private moment." The twinkle in the doctor's eye this time seems more for my benefit. "If you would wait outside, sir."

Lumen shoots me a look of apology. I shake my head as I rise, making a vague gesture: _Don't give it another thought._

Astor looks up from her chair as I shut the door behind me. The waiting room is basically a converted living room, the building an older house being used as an office. A brick fireplace crackles merrily not three away, yet somehow the heat level is perfectly comfortable. An actual aquarium holds what look like real fish, while another without water has itself been converted to a planter full of spider ferns. Not the regular green and leafy kind. More like real spiders. A sort of demonic Venus fly trap.

Astor smirks as I sit down. "Is he giving her a pelvic?"

"You're going to need one of those pretty soon," I reply.

The smirk becomes a grimace of distaste. "I want a woman doctor."

I tip my head. "Your wish is my command."

"Don't even say that." Astor shakes her head and returns to her magazine. I wish I could find that much solace reading about the lives of others.

It's less than two minutes by the clock on the wall before the doctor opens the door to call us in. I don't know if he meant to include Astor, but she hops to her feet and joins me without a moment's hesitation. 

I step aside and hold out my hand. "Ladies first?"

Astor rolls her eyes and walks ahead. It may not be what she was after, but it's good enough.

"And again, sir." The doctor smiles from his chair as we enter the office. "We have some very interesting results."

"Don't look at me." Lumen shakes her head at my inquisitive glance, turning back to the doctor. "Is this the better kind of interesting?"

"Well, that would depend on your perspective." The smile grows broader as the doctor's face contorts in a mass of jolly wrinkles. "But I suspect you will not be displeased."

"What is it?" Astor's already in a hurry. The impatience of youth.

"You, young miss --" The doctor nods to Lumen. "Have actually managed to hang on to a part of your soul. I do not think that has ever been done."

Great. In all the wide and wonderful world of supernatural happenings, this particular subject is the trickiest one I've come across to date. 

"Huh." Lumen mulls this over, looking more perplexed. "Is that good?"

"It is certainly unique." The doctor chuckles. "It would make a fascinating study."

Lumen's expression turns sour. "No, thanks."

"So --" I'm still trying to understand to the best of my admittedly limited ability. "You're saying a soul is divisible?"

"Call it -- an echo?" The doctor holds one hand to his ear, like a beachcomber listening to a seashell. "Something more than a memory, perhaps. These things are not exactly precise."

Which has always been my problem. I like things that can be quantified. Nailed down. Categorized and neatly divided.

"Whatever it is -- you have something most other vampires do not." The doctor shakes his head at this unceasing wonderment.

I look over at Lumen. Her blank expression is turning to one that looks deeply disturbed.

"People do horrible things." Lumen's expression seems empty on the surface. But underneath is a quiet, growing anger. "Unspeakable things."

"They do." The doctor's gaze is gentle, reflecting every bit of her pain. 

Lumen's hand clenches in a fist. Like she's wrapping her fingers around a nonexistent knife.

"But I am sorry to say -- this is not my specialty." The doctor seems quite regretful about not having all the answers. "I can only recommend that you seek advice from those few others in your position."

Lumen appears lost in thought. When she finally looks up, she's back to being annoyed.

"What about the blood?"

"Ah." The doctor frowns and gazes at the ceiling, stroking his chin. "I am told that while the cow is affordable and widely available, I do not know of anyone who actually likes it."

"Are you sure that's not cultural bias?" I ask.

"Hardly." The doctor smiles, but doesn't elaborate. "And as one might expect, the pig is described as being 'funky'. At best."

Lumen makes a face. I remember our ill-fated experiment. It turned into an impromptu recreation of Carrie's prom night.

"Otter, they say, is very good. But a month's supply will cost you a whole paycheck." The doctor chuckles. "More than my consulting fee."

Lumen looks as though she's swallowed a porcupine. "So are there are any good choices?"

"Given what I hear from my patients, I would say the general consensus appears to be..." The doctor's eyes narrow, lips compressing in thought as he strives to remember. "Sheep."

Lumen looks at him in stark disbelief. "Sheep?"

"That is what they say." The doctor shrugs. "I can give you a sample."

We leave through a windowless breezeway that leads straight to the garage. Lumen is wearing a conflicted expression as she sips blood through a bendy straw from a refrigerated thermos cup. Astor keeps making subtle noises, seemingly at random, which I realize are her attempt to get Lumen's goat. Considering that's what Astor sounds like, Lumen apparently finds this more amusing than annoying.

"You're no fun." Astor gives up and trots off, heading for the front passenger door.

"You didn't call shotgun," I point out.

Astor looks back, her upper lip twisting in a Popeye snarl. Thankfully, she doesn't argue. I'm glad I didn't have to tell her it could freeze like that. 

The neighborhood is residential, almost exactly like mine. The sun may not be as healthy for all of us, but it's a practically perfect Miami day as I pull out of the driveway. I wave to the kids across the street, playing ball in the front yard. Then I remember they can't see me through the tinted glass.

"So," Lumen says, as we drive off. "Your ex really did come back this time."

"I guess so," I admit. "More than the last time."

I hear a snort from Astor in back.

"Hush." Lumen's admonishment is nonetheless affectionate. "Any other old girlfriends who might decide to pop out of the woodwork?"

"Well --" I have to say it. "There was the gross English titty vampire."

My eyes are on the road where they should be. Nonetheless, I see Lumen looking over.

"What?"

"She wasn't literally," I try to explain. "And I'm pretty sure she's not coming back. Even as a vampire."

Lumen sounds like she's smirking. "Why, did you kill her?"

I can't help looking guilty as I glance over. 

"Shit." Lumen's smirk is turning to an appalled look of regret.

"It wasn't like that," I hasten to add. "She tried to burn my place down. With Astor and Cody inside."

Lumen turns and gives Astor an incredulous look.

"It's true." Astor nods in the rearview mirror. She sees me watching and gives me a curious look. "Was she like you?"

"I might tell you more about her," I say. "When you're a little older."

  


* * *

  


"I like this."

Rita sits beside me under the spreading shade of a tree. We're not mashed up together, but she's not trying to maintain distance. Deb told us about this park. It's just the two of us, together, watching children and parents going about their daily lives. As far as we can tell, without a care in the world.

"You've never been here?" I realize how silly that sounds. "I mean --"

"I don't think so." Rita smiles. "I always liked the planetarium. They had free shows every week. And Cody --"

She falters a moment. When she smiles again it's a smaller one. Harder, more brittle.

"He loves it there."

"Present tense." I try to strike an encouraging note. "That's a sign of hope."

Rita stares down at the grass. She's sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, wearing a light gray dress and sandals. Thanks to a meditation session with Astor, supervised over long distance by a witch named Willow, the bruise has mostly faded. I stare at the light patterning of scars across her face, the fainter ones on her chest and shoulders. 

"It's ironic." Rita glances up at me, looking uncertain. "I think."

I am praying for this not to be another song moment. "What is?"

Rita stares out over the park. A pair of girls closest to us are alternating use of a jump rope. Their braids flip like windmills as they whirl and skip, exhibiting boundless energy.

"I wished for the man I thought was real... to actually be real." She laughs quietly, with a look of wonder and disbelief. "And you already were."

"I haven't had my Real Boy card very long." I feel twice as awkward trying to make a joke. I'm still just repeating something I heard Lumen say. But it succeeds in getting a real smile.

Rita leans over and takes my hand. "Then it's even more ironic." 

"I'm sure it is," I agree. I hesitate. "Why?"

Rita chuckles, before her smile slowly fades. Not to anything negative. Merely the somber, sober reality.

"Because you weren't always that man." Rita watches me carefully. Prompting for my acknowledgement of this truth. "You couldn't be."

"Until I lost you." I try not to squeeze her hand too tight. My traitorous heart is thumping off kilter. I want to shout at the sun, go swimming in the clouds. "And a lot of it was Astor."

"You've been a great help to her." Rita gives another squeeze before releasing me. She rearranges her posture slightly, placing both hands demurely in her lap. "From what she's told me."

"I try to be a good influence." I think this is pushing the irony meter.

"It helps that you're honest with her." Rita gives me a look. Despite the meaningfully arched eyebrow, I'm surprised it's not more blatant.

"Like I said." I watch an ant crawl over a blade of grass, narrowly avoiding the tip of my shoe. "She did most of the work."

"You have a real relationship now." Rita's voice is soft as velvet, a soothing blanket over my bruised and battered soul. "One that isn't based on deception."

I bow my head again. I still don't know if this will help.

But I know it can't hurt.

"I have something for you."

Her eyes fall to the black leather beltpack as I remove it from my waist.

"I wish --" I clear my throat. "I'd like to give you all of it."

Rita laughs and covers her mouth. Her eyes are full of mirth, her skin aglow in the noonday sun.

I'd probably give it to her anyway. If I hadn't already made the split and left the rest at home. And Astor is waiting for me.

"But I think this is the right thing to do." I place it in her hands. "Just stay calm. Don't draw attention."

"You're scaring me." But Rita looks only moderately worried. Her slim fingers run over the leather, down the length of the zipper as she stares at her gift.

"Just take a look," I say.

I see a flash of fear in her eyes. Her fingers hesitate that fraction of a second.

I'm about to say something when she cracks it open. A gasp comes from her lips at the gleam of sunlight, reflected from inside.

"There's five," I tell her. "You should easily get five thousand apiece. Maybe more. Especially if that name in there is as reliable in your world."

Rita peeks in, seeing the post-it note. Her eyes widen again as her fingers brush the banded stack of bills the note is stuck to.

"And fifty in cash." I look around. The girls are still jumping rope. A band of children and adults further away are busy keeping a hacky sack in the air.

"Fifty --" Rita swallows. Her eyebrows contract in a furious frown. It looks like she's trying to gauge the size of the stack.

"Thousand," I say. "Just act natural. Just --" 

Her hand creeps into mine with a sob.

I return the pressure and don't say anything. Just let her breathe as she sits there shaking, her other hand clutching the bag.

She laughs again. It sounds closer to hysteria than at any time since we rescued her from Owen's clutches. But I see her breathing slow; feel the firm and returning strength in the grip of her hand.

"Thank you," she manages.

"Find a good lawyer." I don't make it sound optional. "A drug lawyer."

Rita shakes her head abruptly, as if to clear it. "Yes."

"Before you need one," I add. "As soon as you get back."

"Angel knows people." She gives me another final squeeze before reclaiming her hand. "His friend Ellen."

"Ellen Wolf?" I frown at the memory. "The defense attorney?"

"That's the one." Rita nods. "He says she has quite the reputation. A real shark."

I return the nod. "That's exactly what you need."

Every other person in sight remains oblivious as a boy runs by not ten feet away. His laughter echoes to the sky, his thundering footsteps vibrating through the earth.

"Get that laundered," I say. "As fast as you can. Just in case there's a problem with duplicate serial numbers."

Rita frowns again as her probing fingers find something unexpected in the bottom of the bag. Her hand emerges with a chunk of stainless steel, dangling from a chain.

"What's this?"

"A thumb drive," I say. "There's a letter from me. For the kids. Whenever you think they're ready."

Rita looks dubious. I don't blame her.

"Lumen helped write it," I add.

Rita smiles again, with a little laugh. "I'm sorry to say that helps."

"Don't be." I return her smile. The twist to my lips feels less awkward than usual. "I know I'm a little handicapped."

That earns another laugh. For an amateur comedian, I think I'm doing all right.

"And --" I pause. "Information. Verified accurate, at least in this world."

Rita's brow contracts into a crease of curiousity. "About?"

"Slayers." I nod at the drive. "Everything I know -- everything Astor's teachers have been willing to share with us. And they're good people," I conclude. "Not like the old boy's club."

The doubtful look is back on Rita's face. "We don't even know if my world has vampires."

"I'd be surprised if it didn't." I lower my voice, trying for a cajoling sales pitch. "Better to have it and not need it."

Now she looks worried again. Terrified and hopeful all at once.

"You really think I might?"

"Just in case." I stand and help her to her feet. "Especially if that old boy's club is still in charge."

  


* * *

  


"I'm glad you stopped by." Deb's never sure what to do with her hands in these situations.

"It's nice not to be shot at." Rita smiles warmly, acknowledging the rocky start to their relationship. "Or tied up."

They're sitting next to each other on the larger of the two couches in Deb's living room. It's better than being separated by any amount of space, but it just leaves her feeling a different kind of awkward.

"Sure would be nice if you could stay longer." Deb resists the urge to qualify this statement. It's not like she's hitting on the woman.

"I could." Rita's smile fades. "But I need to get back to my kids. And I don't think it would be good for Dexter's either."

"Yeah." Deb refrains from a sigh. Or a swear, at the overwhelming suckitude of the situation. It could be a hell of a lot worse for everyone concerned. All things considered, this seems like the best deal they're going to get.

"I'm glad you have someone." Rita pauses, wrestling internally with some dilemma. "And... slightly disappointed."

Deb covers her mouth and coughs. It's worth a smile once she recovers.

"I'm just glad you're alive somewhere." Deb holds out her arms. For once, it doesn't feel like the most unnatural thing she can possibly do.

"Me too." Rita pulls her close, hugging tight. She's wearing the same old perfume. Dexter must have still had some lying around. "You too."

Deb's just relaxing. Enjoying a nice platonic hug. Until it becomes apparent they're both enjoying it more than is probably appropriate.

"Um." The blush on Rita's face as they separate is enough to send a slow and teasing wriggle crawling between her thighs. It makes Deb think of the flush of alcohol and lust when Faith is over her, grinning down, looking cocky. Cocked and loaded.

"You want a beer?" Deb realizes how bad an idea this is. "Tea?"

Rita pauses, taken aback. "You have tea?"

Deb pauses, then shakes her head with an embarrassed chuckle. "You got me there."

"Shall we go to lunch?" Rita smiles and holds up a little black beltpack. "My treat."

  


* * *

  


The church is austere compared to what I was expecting. Once they get to this size, I've noticed most are pretty ornate affairs. This place has the usual wood and marble in abundance. But despite the obvious age of the building, its design is relatively clean. Even the crucifix, while sizable, seems almost abstract in its spare strokes and simple lines. The face of the Christ isn't the bland and incongruous peace I've seen on some, but his suffering is portrayed without gratuitous or histrionic appeal.

Even in this welcoming environment, Astor's trepidation remains strong. She's wearing the black dress she wore to her mother's funeral. The association for me is a powerful one. Her hair is down and loose, thoroughly brushed and smelling of flowers. But the uncertainty in her eyes is mirrored by the motion of her hands. Normally strong and confident, they twist aimlessly about one another as she sits in the front pew beside me.

An elderly woman in white emerges from a nearby door, taking a moment to straighten her dress before hobbling down the aisle. She nods to us as she passes. Her expression is somewhat pained, but it seems purely physical in nature.

I nudge Astor as the opposing door swings open. The two of us rise together, putting our best feet forward. Time to make a good impression.

The man coming out is a few inches shorter than his assistant, even allowing for the shrinkage of age. He's slightly fleshy and stooped, but the frame beneath the cassock is a mighty one considering his advanced years. Cardoza has the sharp eyes and short haircut of a cop. Yet his gaze is kindly and keen, his handshake firm without trying to grind one's bones.

I indicate Astor as I move to one side. She walks up and stops a foot away from him. Standing at attention like a soldier, she squares her shoulders and meets his gaze.

"I'd like to make a confession."

I take my seat as they disappear into the woodwork. I don't know how long this will take, or what good it will do. But in the absence of becoming a martyr on the cross of the law, anything is better than letting this fester inside. The only thing that matters to me is easing the burden on her soul. 

I probably won't share my thoughts with Astor. But I find it amusing that after teasing Lumen about wanting to be alone to sing for the doctor, my daughter can take some comfort in a confidential confession. Guaranteed to remain between her and the priest. And whatever God might be listening.

I watch the drifting sunbeams, filtered through stained glass. I'm starting to drift off myself when I hear the door open.

Astor doesn't look as serene as that old woman. Then again, she might have a bit more on her mind. And she does look better than before. I don't even see any tear tracks on her face. I'd been dreading that despite my growing awareness of emotion. Maybe because of.

Cardoza strides briskly up to me, moving with only mild stiffness as I rise from the pew. "Are you sure you won't --"

"Thank you, Father." I nod as I stand. "I do appreciate the offer."

"Let me know if you change your mind." Cardoza's smile is like a friendlier version of Sergeant Doakes. _Just watch,_ it promises. _I'll get you yet._

"Probably not." I reach into my satchel and rummage about. "But I would like to make a donation."

Cardoza frowns at the sight of a bank deposit bag, complete with a padlock on the zipper. He glances up at me with mild suspicion, awaiting some sort of elaboration.

"In someone else's name," I add. "I believe it's Philip."

"Ah." The confusion in Cardoza's face clears away. "As long as it is not stolen."

"My word to you," I say. I raise my right hand. "Here's the key. I just hope the church knows where to get a good price on diamonds."

Cardoza's nostrils flare in a snort as he tucks the bag into his cassock.

"The Lord will provide."

  


* * *

  


"So this is it."

I gaze around the parking lot. This is definitely one of the dingier motels in Miami. According to Rita, it's not quite as bad on her side. For one thing, they just painted the rooms.

"Charming." Lumen looks less impressed. Then again, her eyes are still smarting from getting out of the car a few seconds too early. The light of the sun has just finished fading from the sky, the security lights overhead casting harsh glare on any areas not still covered by shadow.

"I miss you already." Cody stares up at Rita with huge eyes. But that look of grownup suffering is also making its return. As if he understands and accepts everything. Enough to keep it down from a dull roar to a constant hum of background noise.

Astor's doing a much better job of being brave. I see her hesitate before stepping forward to throw her arms around Rita. Harrison squirms, trapped between them.

"I'll be right back," I tell them.

"Group hug!" Cody sounds desperate.

"I'll be right back," I repeat. I say it nicely with a smile. "I have to rent the room."

My heart feels heavy as my sneakers crunch over the scattering of glass. And it feels lighter than air. Superbly balanced, floating inside my chest in perfect equilibrium.

I pay cash at the desk. Even as low on the totem pole as this place is, they've joined most of the world in moving from actual keys to plastic cards. The edges are sharp in my hand as I walk outside.

My family are waiting on the landing of the second floor, at the door to our room. I trudge up the stairs. A man on his way to the gallows, carried on helium balloons.

"I don't know how close you have to be." I swipe the card, hearing the buzz and click. "Let me go first."

Rita nods. She's looking nervous again, and more.

"It's okay." Astor's voice is quiet as she takes Rita by the hand. She's almost as tall as her mother. "It will be."

Rita bows her head.

I open the door and peer in. Lumen's right behind, ready for potential trouble.

"Nothing yet." I step across the threshold, ushering the others inside. "You said you woke up in the bed?"

Rita nods. I see her staring at a spot on the floor. Unlike the rest of the room, the carpet is brand new. It even smells like it.

"So the rest of us had better stay over here." I nod at the rickety table with its surrounding chairs.

Cody wrinkles his nose. "It smells funny."

"We won't be here long, baby." Rita kneels and opens her arms. "Trust me."

The two older children immediately sweep in to join their brother. I hear a click from the table and look over. Lumen smiles at me, her phone held sideways to capture the moment.

Rita gives Harrison a final kiss before handing him to Astor. Then she motions the children back, facing the bed on the far side of the room.

I'm watching the air around her as she begins to walk. One step at a time, like she's holding her breath in between.

I'm watching so intently I almost miss the light that spirals open just above the bed, in a near-silent rush that rustles the sheets, sends them fluttering to settle back down. Cody gasps and Astor jumps as the spiral expands to a jagged and spidery tear.

A pulsing field roughly three feet across now floats in the air about three feet over the mattress. Even Harrison is staring in fascination at the glowing portal to beyond, his fingers in his mouth momentarily forgotten.

Rita looks back at me. I slowly walk past the kids and stop a mere inch from her, mindful of my own distance from the newly formed rip in reality.

She reaches out to take my hand. We stand in a cramped and dingy room lit by underpowered bulbs. Unwilling to say goodbye, now that we've finally arrived at the actual moment.

"I'm sorry..." Rita struggles to find the words. "I never got the chance to love you." 

I return her squeeze. "I'm sorry you never got to know me."

A little sniffle escapes as she steps forward to embrace me. My arms encircle her and I feel Lumen's eyes upon us. At least I think I do.

We pull apart, still holding hands. Still looking into each other's eyes.

I put on my best and bravest smile. "Goodbye, Rita Bennett."

Her eyes glisten as she returns my smile. 

"Goodbye, Dexter Morgan."

I still feel her fingers in mine. The smell of her hair; the warmth of her touch. But everything is blurring in my sight as she turns away.

She walks forward. One step after another, without pause.

The portal expands in a sudden surge. A searing flare, that encompasses the bed itself. For an all too brief moment she's a silhouette.

An outline, framed against the light.

  


* * *

  


She doesn't see any way out.

Of course the worst part is the boys. Since she woke up to find Mom gone, vanished without a trace or even taking her purse, Astor's been doing her damndest to keep it together. But they're almost out of hot dogs and the mac and cheese from the convenience store. And she hates walking down there even in broad daylight. Even with the jittery way she feels, just itching for somebody to start something.

No matter what happens, that's bound to be bad. Sure to bring down all kinds of trouble from cops to social services. And things are already bad enough without the creepy dreams these past few nights. She'd thought they were about Dexter, but the faces are all different. Twisted into some horrible, animalistic evil.

She never used to believe in that word. Now she sits at the table and watches Cody eat dinner from a paper plate. Trying to think about all the things that need thinking about, even as she desperately does her utmost to think of anything but. Her racing thoughts run in circles upon circles. Like rats eating their own tails.

She can't be like this. Cody needs her. And the last time Harrison started crying Astor had to walk away, had to go outside like Mom and breathe until the red mist cleared from her vision. It's frightening to realize this is how Mom must feel, all the time. Even before all this.

"Finish your dinner." She doesn't dare smile as she nods at Cody's half-finished plate. "I have to get up early."

She'll go down to the pawn shop tomorrow, after the laundromat. There's got to be something she can hock besides the gun. It's scary just being responsible for knowing where it is. Almost scary enough that it makes her want to give in and try to call Angel. But he's too busy being lieutenant. Too busy to help them like he used to.

She was having nightmares about someone breaking in. About being forced to use the gun, or having it taken from her. Until these new nightmares. And now, on the ragged edge of despair, even as bad as things have gotten between them, all Astor wants is to see her mom's face. Just one more time. 

Cody looks up. A smear of ketchup runs across his upper lip.

"Can I go with you?"

"You know you have to stay here with Harrison." Astor leans over and wipes off the ketchup with a napkin. She's trying to sound patient, but they've had this discussion before. Cody has to be the man of the house. At least when she's not around.

He looks ready to argue. And that's the last thing Astor wants.

Except something else is happening.

A low and rising hum tickles the pit of her stomach. Makes all the little hairs on her arms rise up, stand at attention.

Cody's eyes are expanding to fill his entire face, his mouth falling open as half-chewed macaroni spills onto the table. Astor would yell at him. She still thinks she ought to be freaking out. Or grabbing the boys and the purse and running straight for the door. Not sitting here gawking like her brother, rooted to the spot.

The only thing that makes her stand her ground is that deeply buried flicker. A trace of something in her subconscious that sees even this impossibility as something familiar.

A remnant of a dream.

Cody's making tiny incoherent noises. The swirling, shimmering mass over the bed expands to surround the entire thing. In a flash, it's a blinding light that floods every corner and crevice in the room.

Astor realize she's holding her breath. She's also hoping she doesn't actually go blind. But the light is gone, leaving purple clouds floating in her sight. They pulse and shrink in a whirling dance, slowly fading to nothing as she furiously tries to blink them away.

"Astor --"

She wants to scream at the sound of that voice. Astor still thinks she might. Except it feels too good to feel those arms around her again. Even having to share with Cody, feeling him crying snot and tears all over. And she's trying not to squeeze too hard; remembering the vending machine the other day, how scary easy it was to snap the lock when she got mad. She'd been too paranoid to try cracking the metal box that held all the money, but they'd loaded up on a week's worth of chips and energy bars.

Cody's got the hiccups. It makes him trying to say _Mom_ over and over even funnier, at the same time it's pathetic. Astor buries her face in that sweet smelling hair and tries not to cry, or break her mother's back. Suddenly it doesn't seem like such a joke.

"I love you." Mom's hugging back almost as hard. Her own tears mix with theirs, her voice a harsh near whisper. "I will never leave you again. God, I love you so much..."

Astor doesn't know how long it goes on. She's just whispering back that she's sorry, every time her mom says how much she loves all of them. All she knows is that she wants to believe. That it's happening at all; that this promise can be real.

"Where were you?" Cody's words are muffled, his face buried in Mom's shoulder. "We looked everywhere! We --"

"It's okay." Mom puts her hand to Cody's face, cupping his cheek to stem the tide of tears.

Something's wrong. Or less wrong than it was. Astor's looking more closely. At the freshly shampooed hair that makes her self-conscious of her own greasy locks; the gray dress she remembers but hasn't seen in forever. Even the scars on her mother's face are barely visible; faded to thin white lines, as though years have passed. 

Mom swallows, looking over at Astor. "Harrison?"

"He's sleeping." Astor thinks that came out well as she points. She's trying to remember how to use words. 

Mom stands up and peers over the edge of the makeshift crib. A look of profound relief comes over her face.

"I've got a lot to tell you." Mom's looking back and forth between them, only slightly worried. "And you might not believe me."

"You just came out of a sparkly hole in the air." Astor manages the sarcasm just fine. What she can't help is the tremor from her voice. She's still not sure that any of this is real. She also has no idea when she started dreaming.

"Good point." Mom seems a bit less anxious. There's an odd sort of affection in her eyes as she looks around the dingy room, then down at the black beltpack around her waist. "Let's start with this."

Neither of them wants to let go. Somehow, Mom coaxes them into setting her free. Astor watches as her mother undoes the snap, holding the pack in her hands like it's solid gold.

"This is our secret." Mom still doesn't seem that worried, but she looks deadly serious. "Understand?"

They both nod. Nothing more needs to be said.

Mom unzips the bag and pauses. Then she upends the bag, dumping its contents on the bedspread in a grand and dramatic gesture.

Astor's actually expecting money. At least some little bit. What she's not expecting is a fat stack of hundreds the size of her fist, barely contained by thick rubber bands. Or the glitter of stars on the sheets of the bed, as her mother's fingers find a tiny shiny stone, holding it up to the light.

"Secret." Mom gives them one more look. "Right?"

Cody nods, too awestruck for actual speech.

"Where'd you get that?" Astor knows she sounds shaky.

"Like I said." Rita's own laugh sounds equally uncertain. "You wouldn't believe me -- honey, what --"

"I --" Tears scald the insides of her eyelids, already spilling forth as her face screws up in an anguished knot. "I didn't know where you were. And we didn't want to get kicked out. I made sure Cody and Harrison were clean and we had food but the rent was due in in two days and -- there's only eighteen dollars left, and -- eighteen --"

"Ssh..." Mom's whispering in her ear. Holding her close again, not tight at all. Like she's a Christmas ornament made of paper-thin glass. "Just breathe, baby. You've been so strong. Just breathe..."

"The gun --" Astor swallows a sob. Her arms feel like useless sticks as her fists clutch blindly at thin air. "I checked it. Every morning when I got up -- every night when I went to bed. Nobody else touched it --"

"That's good." Mom's stroking her hair. "That's good, sweetie. I'm going to teach you how to use that."

Astor's not sure she heard right. She pulls back with a look of confusion.

"I'm just a kid."

"You're fourteen." Mom gives Astor a tiny smile, and a firm squeeze on the shoulder. "You're old enough."

Astor sucks in a deep breath of air. She almost feels too dizzy to stand.

Mom takes a breath of her own, looking abruptly serious. "But I need to ask you something."

Astor knows that tone of voice. She just hasn't heard it in a while. Something important, but not necessarily bad. Probably bad and good.

"Have you been having any strange dreams?" Mom's gaze is unusually sharp as she looks at Astor, demanding honesty. "And I don't mean about Dexter."

Astor suddenly feels very uncomfortable. And not just at the sound of that name. In all her fervent desire for this moment, she hasn't given the slightest thought to what might come next. Or how to bring up any of her bizarre new problems that seem to be cropping up alongside all the old ones.

"I want you to teach your brother how to fight." Mom's looking at a puzzled Cody with a critical eye. Like he hasn't washed behind his ears. "It'll be good for both of you."

"I --" Astor's not sure about that. Not at all.

"Especially since you're so much stronger than he is." Mom looks back at her, raising one eyebrow. "Isn't that right?"

Astor thought her head was spinning before. The speed at which her fortunes are reversing themselves threatens to leave her with mental whiplash.

"How --" Astor's struggling to make sense of it all. She can't imagine how her mom knows. Not about something that didn't even start until after she'd disappeared.

Mom picks up the stack of hundreds, pulling something loose from one of the rubber bands. Astor's fingers still feel slightly numb as it drops into her hand.

She holds it up with a frown. It's a tiny black thumb drive on the end of a chain; barely big enough to fit into a port and leave enough sticking out to grab onto. And on the back plate, there's a red sticker.

With the letter _S_.

"You and I have a lot to talk about. But first?" Mom's smile is somewhat bashful. "We need a computer."

"Uh-uh." Astor shakes her head, eager to instruct. "You can get an adaptor. For your phone --"

They're all talking at once. It's loud enough to wake up Harrison. Mom just goes over and picks him up without missing a beat, patting him on the back and holding him to her chest. And even if it's not quite like she never left in the first place, Astor knows that everything is different. That her life will never be the same.

For the first time in forever?

That's a good thing.

  


* * *

  


I want this to last forever. Capture the moment somehow. Step right in, freeze myself in the now of the present.

But all good things must come to an end.

I hear Cody's sniffles. The same from Astor, as she tells him to be brave like her. Lumen holds them in her arms along with Harrison, whispering encouragement to all three. I can barely hear the sound of her voice.

The hum is rising. Fast becoming a roar.

My feet no longer touch the ground. I look down in surprise. Only to forget why.

I don't know if someone is calling my name. I can't feel my body.

Can't see a thing, as the world and I go hurtling into space.

There's nothing to hang onto. My family is gone, their voices swallowed up in the din and clamor now rising to fever pitch.

I try to remember their faces. But I'm coming apart. Split at the seams; every part of me flying violently away from every other.

Terminal velocity. Out beyond the stars.

Into the dark.


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dark Passenger comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With only one scene to go, you really thought I'd leave you hanging? Now just have patience while I figure out the rest of book 3. As well as try to have a bit of a life.
>
>> _"A life, Jimmy. You know what that is? It's the shit that happens while you're waiting for moments that never come."_  
> 
> 
> * * *

I've been here before.

But this doesn't feel like being drugged. More like an isolation tank. An environment without gravity or temperature; completely lacking in any physical sensation. Nothing that ties me to the world.

Or even a body.

I don't know if I should panic.

Faces drift and swirl in my thoughts. No more than smoke that disappears when I try to get a closer look, to somehow grab hold with whatever phantom limb I can conjure into being.

My thoughts grow heavy. More solid, as my awareness of the rest of me comes into focus.

I'm lying down.

I'm on my back. The floor is cold and hard. My nose itches with the smell of solvents, industrial cleaners by the dozen.

There's hardly any light when I open my eyes. What there is comes through windows that haven't been cleaned in years; skylights up near the ceiling, covered in grime. The ceiling is high, sporting clusters of old flourescent fixtures that dangle from rusted brackets.

The air is humid as I sit up. I hardly notice. I'm staring at row upon row of plastic, gleaming dimly under the faint light that comes from outside. A thousand little gleaming reflections, stretching off away into darkness.

I reach out and grab the plastic between my fingers. Empty. A whole rack of bags on hangers, waiting to be filled.

I turn to look at the rack on the opposite side of the room. These bags are full. Almost bulging like scarecrows in comparison. I see what look like paper tags, affixed to the top of each one.

My eyes have almost adjusted. I look over at the sign on the wall, move closer for a better view. It helpfully informs me that a whole eighty-three days have passed since the Midland Metro Kleen-Rite commercial laundering facility has had some sort of accident.

A faint rustling from somewhere. I close my eyes and cock my head. Imagine myself straining my ears like a bat. 

The noise is louder now. The sound of movement, and a voice. I can almost make out words.

"Fuck --" The desperate cry is sudden, as if a gag has just been removed. "I'm sorry! Jesus, what the fuck do you want?"

I don't move from the spot. I look around for some sort of weapon as I check my pockets. No keys or wallet. No knife. Or even a stake --

I look down at my clothes. It's my usual kill outfit, with a slightly less dark shirt. The clothes I was wearing when I went with Lumen and the kids to Room 321 of the Westbridge Sleep-Rite motel. To send Rita back to her world.

Something has gone horribly wrong.

"You want money?" The man's voice is desperate with cunning. It sinks to a murmur, a low and soothing babble. "I can hook you up! Just say the word, man, just say the fucking word and I got you covered --"

I glide forward on soft rubber soles. Sticking to the shadows, I slide through the rows of bags with a whisper of sound. I keep both eyes peeled for any sort of offensive tool. Nothing in the way of blunt or sharp is leaping out at me.

I hold my breath as I peer out from a pair of thin plastic walls. A dark figure stands hunched over a table. Another lies stretched upon it, struggling as if trying to move inside ironclad restraints.

My will is frozen. My feet rooted to the spot, as I try to make sense of it.

I don't see any pictures of bodies surrounding the table. Don't hear a recitation of this man's crimes from this presumptive executioner. Without context, I have no idea what's going on.

I still don't know what I'm doing. But as I start to move I hear a faint scraping, behind and to my left.

It's the only thing that lets me avoid the blade as it comes down in an arc, wildly swinging back and forth. A series of crazed and wordless shrieks drive the knife forward as I stumble back and away.

My fingers close around a painfully thin wrist. My body's on automatic as I twist and take down my attacker, pushing the other shoulder, driving her into the floor. I pull my strength at the last, watch the blade tumble from her fingers to clatter harmlessly on concrete.

"You motherfucker!"

Pale green eyes blaze fury. The body that struggles in my grasp is small and weak, utterly unable to move. Her jeans are torn and faded, her shirt under the vinyl apron equally plain and black as the gloves that go up to her elbows. But I'm too stunned at the look on that face.

Too stunned at the face itself.

"I'll kill you!" Astor draws fresh air deep in her lungs, preparing to unleash all her strength. "I'll fucking kill you --"

_"Astor!"_

I thought I was stunned before. But that voice is a bolt from heaven between the eyes. I'm little more than cattle. Dead before I even hit the ground to bleed out.

The figure at the table turns to face us, still shrouded in shadow. The prospective victim is still protesting as the figure reaches behind without looking, stuffing a towel back in its mouth.

Astor trembles in my grip, her every muscle tense and vibrating as if from an electric current. I hear her breathe through her nose, feel her body coil and attempt to relax. Waiting for the right moment.

There's nothing but black as the figure steps forward. Matching apron and gloves, identical to Astor's; a thin, gaunt face with two days' stubble. And eyes like burning coals that stare out from under shaggy dark curls.

As if they're seeing a ghost come to life.

"Dexter?"

Brian looks like he can't believe his eyes. His fear and desperate hope at war with complete rejection of everything he knows to be true. He stares at me open mouthed, shaking his head, trying and failing to find words.

"I'll kill you." Astor's growl is heavy with strain from the angle of my hold on her arm.

"No."

Brian seems to float in the air as he glides forward. There's a larger knife in his hand. He looks down, as if remembering it.

"You came back." Brian shakes his head again. He's even thinner than I remember under the apron. Not quite anorexic, but bordering on unhealthy. "I always knew you'd come back."

I'm sure I look dazed as I stare back at him. "What happened?"

Brian looks at me. Then he laughs as he reaches down and takes my hand, gently guiding me to release his ward. Astor scrambles to her feet and backs away, rubbing her arm.

"I always knew there was a God." Brian looks ready to weep from sheer joy, breathing heavily as he struggles for self-control. He looks back at the man strapped to the table.

"Who is he?" I ask.

"A killer." Astor spits the word like it's a leper carrying the plague. "Like you."

Only one thing matters. That's what I tell myself.

"Does this man deserve to die?"

Brian stands up straight under my scrutiny, his gaze full of righteous fire. "Absolutely."

The figure on the table goes into a series of silent heaving convulsions as I approach, expending all its effort on trying to break free. But there are yards of plastic wrap in play. Not a single inch of it gives in the slightest.

Faces swirl in my mind. Rita. Lumen. Astor and Cody.

Harrison.

Imploring me to resist.

"Do it." Astor's voice is a fierce whisper. Her fists are clenched as she stands beside me, staring down at our prey. "Do it. Do it. Do it --"

Brian's hand caresses the small of my back. He isn't joining Astor's verbal entreaty. But his entire body quivers with anticipation, tensing like a quarter horse at the gate.

The pulse of blood in my brain is a bomb. Throbbing and swollen, pushing me beyond all limits.

Desperate eyes stare up at me as I raise the knife. The eyes of a stranger. No vile violations of victims; no proof of anything to tie them to the Code.

I hear a wordless shout from Astor. A sigh from Brian, as the blade sinks in.

As I feel my own heart shatter in two.

Blood wells up as the body breathes its last. Spills out over the chest, down the sides of the table in twin trickles to pool onto plastic.

Grief and solace become one. And the curtain descending over my soul is an old familiar friend.

The Dark Passenger has returned.

Brian's laugh turns to a sob. His arms embrace my numb and unresisting body.

As eyes of burning hate stare into mine.

"Welcome home, Dex."

Brian hugs me with all his might. Astor continues to murder me from two feet away, with her all too adult gaze.

Promising nothing but death.

"Welcome home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
>
>>   
>  __  
>  **July 3, 2020 - August 8, 2020**   
>    
> 
>> 
>> * * *
> 
> Don't miss the final chapter of the thrilling and inevitable trilogy:
> 
>   
> **And the Devil Will Drag You Under**  
> 
> 
> Coming as soon as humanly possible.


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